


Grant Ward: Out of Darkness

by skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Agents of SHIELD, F/M, FitzSimmons - Freeform, Gen, Grant Ward - Freeform, Hydra, Marvel - Freeform, Origin Story, SHIELD, Skyeward - Freeform, there is hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 14:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 92
Words: 92,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1473358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda/pseuds/skyewardfitzsimmonsphillinda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my idea of what it's like from Ward's perspective, working with a team, falling in love by accident, and realizing that hope is sometimes the greatest and most unexpected gift of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Recruit

They didn’t tell him this mission was going to involve a kid. They didn’t tell him that the kid would look like hell had just been beaten out of him.

They didn’t tell him much at S.H.I.E.L.D., not until the latest possible moment. And it was beginning to drive Agent Garrett more than a little crazy.

“Hey kid.”

The boy flinches, his hands tighten around his knife.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” Softly.

The boy barks out a laugh, and turns, clutching his knife. “The hell you’re not. CIA or KGB?”

“What century are you living in, kid? The KGB is dead.”

“Don’t play games,” the boy says coldly, looking Garrett in the face. “None of them ever die. You kill one, another takes its place.”

Garrett laughs, and the boy squints at him. “You seem to know a lot for a fourteen year old.”

“You think I’m fourteen?”

Garrett hesitates. He’s actually starting to like this kid—no denial, no confirmation, just questions. It would throw most people. “I have your file, kid. _We_ have your file.”

“Who’s we this time?”

“This time? What does that mean, son?”

“You have the file, you tell me,” the boy says sharply, taking the smallest of steps back. His wrist curves slightly, and Garrett’s finger tenses on the trigger of his gun. “And I’m nobody’s son.”

“Kid, you could change the world,” Garrett says abruptly. “Don’t make me put a bullet through your eye.”

The boy only smiles, and once again, Garrett is impressed. And maybe just a little terrified, too, that a child could smirk in the face of death; that he has so obviously done so many times before.

“I’m serious,” Garrett says. “They sent me here to kill you or recruit you, and I want you on my team, kid.”

“I’m not exactly a team player.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Re-read that file, Agent. You might want to think again.” He flips the knife casually in his hand, the look in his eyes fierce. Desperate.

“I could kill you, and you really don’t care.”

“I could kill _you_ , Agent. Is it S.H.I.E.L.D. this time?”

“What’s S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“Don’t play dumb, Agent. Everyone in the intelligence community knows about S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Do you want in?”

“I want to be left alone.”

“That’s not gonna happen, kid,” Garrett shakes his head. “They know about you. Like you said, the CIA, the KGB”—

“And S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“And S.H.I.E.L.D. But kid, they’re never gonna stop coming for you. You’re too good. You see too much. You know too much. And we can protect you.”

“I’m doing pretty well on my own,” the boy says arrogantly, that same dead, focused look in his eyes.

“I can see that,” Garrett nods. “You’re good now. I can make you unstoppable.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. can fall.”

Garrett smiles wryly. “They already have.”

The boy cocks his head, looking at Garrett suspiciously.

Garrett pulls out his gun slowly, and the boy holds up his knife. “I can bury this in your throat.”

“I know.” Garrett pulls another gun from his hip and lowers both to the ground. “So do it, kid, or come with me.”

The boy doesn’t lower his knife, but he doesn’t throw it, either. “What do I get out of it? S.H.I.E.L.D. is weak.”

Garrett hesitates. “S.H.E.I.L.D. is dying.”

“Is that what all your recruiters say?” the boy asks sardonically.

“I’m not a S.H.I.E.L.D. recruiter,” Garrett says, holding out his hand for the boy to shake. “I’m your S.O.”

“Are you really S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

“S.H.E.I.L.D. isn’t really S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Then what the hell are you trying to sign me up for?”

Garrett leans forward, and when the boy doesn’t flinch, he whispers into his ear, “Hydra.”

The boy looks up sharply, then a smile spreads slowly across his face. “It never died?”

“They never die,” Garrett says. “You said so yourself.”

And slowly, slowly, the boy reaches out to shake his hand.


	2. Ascension

“He’s passed every S.H.I.E.L.D. exam with flying colors, Agent Garrett,” the woman behind the desk says, handing him a folder reading _Ward, Grant_. “Are you sure about this one, John?”

“Thank you, Commander Hill,” Garrett smiles wryly. “And yes. I’ve never been surer.”

As Garrett walks away to join Ward, Hill looks after him, eyes narrow. “Phil?”

Phil steps out from the office, looking at their retreating backs. “You’re worried?”

“He shouldn’t be level six.”

“I agree,” Coulson says. “He should be level seven.”

“Phil? Are you serious?”

“That kid’s spent too much time with Garrett,” Coulson says firmly.

Hill looks up. “He’s your friend.”

“One of my best friends. I know him. And I see how that kid looks up to him. You know Ward’s history, Hill. He’s never had anyone who treated him like he was even human until Garrett, and it worries me.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust Garrett?” Hill asks, surprised.

“Of course I trust him,” Coulson says. “But you know what he’s like. He can teach Agent Ward a lot, but he can’t teach him how to be human.”

“You’re not serious.” Agent Hill shakes her head.

Phil looks up at her in surprise.

“You want him, don’t you, Coulson?” Hill shakes her head fervently. “You want him on your team.”


	3. Commission

“You’ve been recruited.”

The words stop Agent Ward in his tracks, and he looks over at his SO. “Recruited, sir?”

“They’re assigning me a new recruit,” Garrett tells him. “Orders from up high.”

Ward looks up at him sharply. “How high?”

“Fury,” Garrett says. “I trust you know what you’re doing.”

“I always have.”

“Coulson wants you on his team. He’s a good man,” Garrett says slowly. “One of the best. Nick Fury trained both of us back in the day.”

“Is he”— Ward inclined his head towards Garrett.

Garrett shakes his head. “He cares nothing for power. He’s always been a company man. A suit. And since New York”—

“Where he supposedly died”—

“Yes, where he supposedly died, Agent Coulson has been different,” Garrett says, grinning wryly. “No one but Fury really knows what happened in Tahiti, or how they brought him back, but he came back changed. I’ve only seen him once since then, but he’s dangerous.”

“Do you need me to cross him out?”

“No,” Garrett says sharply. “He’s not a threat to us. He’s a threat to you, kid.”

Ward stiffened. His SO hadn’t called him “kid” since that fateful recruitment day so many years ago. “To me, sir?”

“Coulson can be a manipulative old bastard,” Garrett says callously. “He can make you like him. He can act like a friend, but don’t forget what he really stands for.”

“And that is?”

“Don’t be a smart ass, kid. If he gets a hint of what we’re up to, he won’t hesitate to lock you away for life. He’s S.H.I.E.L.D., he’s the system. He stands for the weakness of an intelligence agency that is being spoon fed false intelligence.”

“And you think I’ll fall for his trust-the-system bullshit?”

“I think you’ll fall for his I’m-you’re-friend garbage,” Garrett says harshly. “Don’t let them into your head. You’ll be on a team, and you can’t let that make you think you’re a team player. You’re not. Remember what you told me?”

“I remember that I was a fourteen-year-old piece of shit kid who had survived three attempts on my life,” Ward says cockily. “I’m not so easily swayed.” He kicks the unconscious form of the security guards they had knocked out, and grabs the file they had come for.

As he turns to go, Garrett’s hand snakes out and grabs him, jerking him back around. “Don’t walk away,” he snarls. “Don’t you dare walk away from me. From this. Not after what I’ve done for you.”

Ward lifts his chin coldly. “I don’t forget my debts, sir. Don’t ever suggest that.”

“Then I can trust you? You’ll get this team on your side. There’s going to be a technician, a scientist, Coulson, and you. Don’t be easy to get—you’re a specialist, you do things alone. Let them feel like they’re getting to know the real you. Don’t let Coulson in your head. Can you do that?”

“I can do anything,” Ward says coldly, putting his gun into his holster.

“Because of me,” Garrett reminds him icily. “Don’t forget that, _Agent_ Ward.”

“I’m not an agent, sir,” Ward says. “S.H.I.E.L.D. is dead, and I’ll do what needs to be done to keep Hydra from following. You know that. You’ve always known that.”


	4. Trust

“A Chitauri neurolink? S.H.I.E.L.D. is sending you after this garbage now?” Garrett growled. “I _told_ you. Get into their good graces. You can’t play the rough-edges pet-project card too well, or Coulson will change his mind about bringing you onto his team.”

“Commander Hill pulled me out of Paris, so I’m assuming it’s time for her big reveal,” Ward says curtly, placing the small bag containing the neurolink into the pocket of his suit coat. “And by the way, how did you earn the honor of being my extraction?”

“Coulson asked me to come,” Garret replies. “He asked if I’d told you anything, and I told him we haven’t talked much since the days when I was your SO. And you wanna know what that pompous sonofabitch said? He said sometimes having space from the past can be a good thing, but if we go too far, we forget who we are. God, I can’t wait to see the look on his face when Hydra’s finally activated. That. Pompous. Arse.”

Ward stares away from him, out the window of the helicopter. “They think I only know the level six intel? That you’ve told me nothing, about the battle of New York or Coulson’s resurrection”—

“Well, what level eight agents know of it, anyways”—

“And you think Hill believes all that? She’s not stupid.”

“No, she’s not, but she trusts S.H.I.E.L.D. She trusts the system. And that, son, will always be their greatest downfall. And kid, let me give you a tip about Hydra.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Survivors don’t trust the system—any system. Not even the strongest ones. You have to be stronger than the strongest system. Only the weakest among us truly trust the system to begin with,” Garrett looks up at him over the console, his eyes narrow.

“I trust _you_ ,” Ward says quietly. “Does that make me weak?”

Garret’s face softens momentarily, and he slaps Ward’s shoulder. “No, kid,” he says fiercely. “It makes you unbreakable.”


	5. Assignment

“Agent Ward, what does S.H.I.E.L.D. mean to you?” Commander Hill asks him coolly, staring at him across the desk, his file resting open in her hand.

The question strikes him as odd—it’s what they’d ask someone at the academy, entering for the first time, not a seasoned S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. How does he respond?

_Weakness. The inability to protect. S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t see what’s coming. They clean up messes, walk around in suits and dark glasses and try to cover up the truth that people can’t handle. But S.H.I.E.L.D. is fragile. S.H.I.E.L.D. is the big brother who isn’t even strong enough to throw its little brother the rope…_

The words claw at the back of his mind, at the back of his nightmares, but he never speaks them. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he speaks the words he knows will placate every S.H.I.E.L.D. agent who wants to believe they’re making a difference:

“It means we’re the line. Between the world—and the much weirder world. We protect people from news they aren’t ready to here. And when we can’t do that? We keep them safe.”

A mobile command unit. He should’ve known from Garrett’s stories that no expense would have been spared on Coulson. Nick Fury’s pet project has his own pet project now: the Rising Tide.

Ward had, of course, played his part: shock that Coulson was alive, reluctance to join the team, consternation at the threat of the rising tide.

It was only when he saw the footage in the command console that the first jolt of fear hit him. It was a man, jumping from at least four floors up and landing on his feet. Unharmed.

Ward laughed inwardly. S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn’t even use their own intel to hear about Centipede’s super-soldiers. They’d stumbled upon it by accident, because some computer-hacking kids had decided to plaster it across the world-wide web.

S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn’t as secure as they thought, that Ward had always known. But a group of hackers had infiltrated the mainframe? That wasn’t just bad news for S.H.I.E.L.D.; it was bad news for Hydra.

_Garrett would want me to cross them off. I hope to god that’s what Coulson wants too._

But Coulson is staring at him quizzically over his paperwork, and shaking his head, saying he wants to use this hacker group—the Rising Tide, they’re called, he’ll have to ask Garrett why he hasn’t heard of them before now—to get to the super soldier.

Ward grits his teeth at Coulson’s comments— _helping_ this soldier? Until today, Ward hadn’t thought anyone had the naïveté—or the arrogance—to think that anyone in this business was about “helping” other people.

Garrett had helped him when he was a rookie, a lost kid, but Garrett was different. Garrett was outside of all of this, a survivor of the system, while Phil Coulson was bound to it.

“Where do we start?” he asks sharply; so sharply that Commander Hill looks up, raising her eyebrows.

“I’m assembling a team now,” Coulson informs him. “Fitzsimmons in science and you, so far. You’ll be informed where to report and when. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

When Coulson was gone, Hill turned on her heel to face Ward. “Your job is to protect, not cross off, Agent Ward, and I pray to god that you don’t mess this one up, because you know—you must know—that your field record isn’t the shiniest.”

“It’s a field record,” Ward says emotionlessly. “It’s not supposed to be shiny. That’s why you recruited me.”

“Coulson doesn’t play the game the way the rest of them do, Agent Ward,” Hill says, shaking her head at him slightly. “So don’t mess this one up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Agent Ward, what does S.H.I.E.L.D. mean to you?” and “It means we’re the line. Between the world—and the much weirder world. We protect people from news they aren’t ready to here. And when we can’t do that? We keep them safe.” are both direct lines from canon/dialogue and do not belong to me. This is just my idea of what it was like from Ward's perspective when all this was happening.


	6. The Team

Ward had expected the technician, the young Scot. Garrett had told him the kid would grate on his nerves; that his team would expect him to act gruff, annoyed even. What he hadn’t told him was that Fitzsimmons wasn’t one person—it was two.

“Fitz,” the girl smiled, pointing to the boy.

“Simmons,” the boy grinned back, jerking his thumb towards the girl.

A goddamn mobile command unit with kids on board? It was no wonder S.H.I.E.L.D. had been so easy to infiltrate.

Agent Ward rolled his eyes at the two scientists—who were now chattering about the updates to his com in some language that could not conceivably be English—and turned to Coulson. “You can’t have cleared them for combat,” he said, shaking his head.

Coulson smiled slightly. “If all goes according to plan, they should never have to see combat, Agent Ward. And if they do, that’s why you’re here.”

_If all goes according to plan, I’ll be activated within a few months and they’ll be sitting on their defenseless asses._

“I’m a specialist. Not a protector,” Ward said quickly, but Coulson was looking at him strangely. Almost sadly.

“What was it you told Commander Hill? That S.H.I.E.L.D. is about protecting people?”

Ward straightened, turned away from Coulson. “We should teach our own to protect themselves. It’s the greatest kindness you can do anyone.”

“Like Garrett did for you?”

Ward set his jaw. He wasn’t going to talk about where he came from, and certainly not about his mentor. Especially not with Phil Coulson himself.

Coulson was smiling slightly, with a knowing look that sparked something inside Ward.

_Garrett was right. That pompous bastard._

Ward smiled stiffly and turned to go.

“Agent Ward? There’s someone else I’d like you to meet.”

“Our pilot?” Ward asked calmly, but his mind was racing.

Another variable? One of Coulson’s pet projects, most likely. He could almost hear Garrett’s voice in his head. _You identify the variables, the things you can’t control. And then you cross them out._

And Ward had always found that was the only way to survive.

Coulson led the way towards the cockpit. Inside was a woman, with waving black hair and boots with heels that could probably impale him. She was dressed all in black—and by the looks of her, she was fit more for a combat op than for the cockpit of a plane.

“Agent Melinda May,” Coulson introduced her, and she nodded curtly at Ward. “This is Grant Ward.”

“The Calvary?” Ward whistled softly. “You brought the Calvary on board?”

May tossed him a dirty look. “Don’t ever call me that.”

She pushed past him roughly, throwing Coulson a sharp glance on her way out.

“Was she conscripted too?” Ward asked sardonically. _And how the hell am I supposed to neutralize the Calvary when she decides I’m a threat?_

“I prefer the word ‘assigned,’ Ward,” Coulson said pleasantly. “And I guarantee that if you call May ‘the Calvary’ again, you’ll end up being thrown off the bus. While in the air.”


	7. Preparation

“So what’s the plan, sir?” Ward asked, rolling his sleeves up. “Do we bring in the girl who released the footage of the super soldier?”

_And then I stage an accident later so she never leaks more footage?_

He’d heard her voice in the video, and despite the dramatic overtones of the video; the drabble about “secrets” and “shadows” and “lies,” the girl had sounded serious. Frighteningly so. If there were people out there dedicated to taking down S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets, it would only be a matter of time before someone heard a whisper of Hydra and hell broke loose too soon.

“May will drop us outside the town, where we’ll have a van waiting for us.”

Ward nodded, stepping back from the team uncomfortably. He was used to this—missions like this, at least—so why did something feel off to him?

“Just how long have you been doing this alone, Agent Ward?” Coulson asked quietly, and Ward’s head jerked up.

“Alone? I’ve never been alone. S.H.I.E.L.D. has my back,” he said firmly.

“I mean, how long has it been since your mission involved another team member?” Coulson asked, again with that knowing smile that was beginning to drive Ward crazy. “Or was it always just you and Garrett before you became a level six?”

“It was always just me and Garrett,” Ward nodded. “But I’ve always preferred the freedom of working alone.”

“Well, get used to working with a team.” Agent May was standing just behind him, and Ward flinched ever so slightly.

She was good. _Really_ good. He hadn’t even heard her enter, and he was trained to listen for those noises.

“I need to know you have his back,” she said sharply, her chin set. “Can we trust you?”

“May,” Coulson said softly, and she glanced at him briefly.

Her eyes were dark and unreadable when she turned back to Ward. “ _Will you have his back?_ ” she demanded.

Ward held up his hands, a tiny, mocking smile playing across his lips. “The target isn’t a hostile, May,” he said, and he saw her fists clench. “There won’t be any surprises.”

Agent May laughed mirthlessly. “There are always surprises, kid,” she told him coolly, stepping close and invading his space. He knew the tactic—it was intimidation, and it was one Garrett had taught him—thought with her it seemed like less of a tactic and more of a habit. “Didn’t they teach you that at the academy? Or wherever it is you’re from?”

Ward flinched at the shot, but maintained his cool smile. “I’m always prepared for surprises, Agent May,” he said, stepping back so she felt like the power was in her hands. “And I’ll have his back. You can trust me.”

“Good,” she said coldly. “I don’t want to have to save your ass.”

Ward’s chin jerked up, and he had opened his mouth to reply heatedly when Coulson spoke up. “I think that’s enough,” he said quietly, and to Ward’s surprise May didn’t argue. “From both of you. I trust that you’ll both have my back, whatever happens. And I trust that this mission won’t be anything out of the ordinary. I’m hoping you can both handle something this routine?”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said reluctantly, and May nodded.

“It’s just a hacker,” Coulson said. “A hacker who could be the key to a lot of things.”

“To finding the super soldier?”

“To a lot of things, Agent Ward,” Coulson said, smiling cryptically, and Ward refrained from flinching at the infuriating smile.

His secure com-link—which Garrett had set up for him outside of S.H.I.E.L.D.—was off limits while he was on board the MCU, or he’d be ranting to his SO at very possible moment. And he’d be asking for advice on this faceless hacker who spoke as if she’d like to take the darkness in her fists and wring the secrets free from them. This faceless hacker who should be a simple mission, but this element of the unknown—if she already knew about Hydra, if she knew Ward’s secrets and spilled them to Coulson at the first opportunity, if she knew more yet than she was saying—terrified him.

“Ward?” Coulson was looking at him oddly, and he realized that Coulson had been trying to get his attention. “Ward, I need you to focus. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said, squaring his shoulders and tightening his guns in their holsters. “Yes, I’m ready.”

How could he have known that he had never been more wrong?


	8. The Variable

_Asset… rising tide…_

Coulson’s conversation with the Calvary carried across the hall, and Ward jerked to attention. They were talking about the girl.

“I said she stays,” Coulson told the Calvary curtly as Ward joined them. “And that’s final.”

“Sir, this girl is a risk,” Ward said briskly, intruding on the conversation. Coulson looked up, a slight smile playing on his lips, and Ward continued. “She could be a danger to this team.”

_A variable. Another goddamn variable because Coulson can’t be happy with one project. A project like me._

_Oh, Garrett, what have you gotten us into?_

“She stays.”

“What the hell, sir?” Ward snapped, folding his arms. “This wasn’t the mission. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down.”

“I realize that this isn’t what you prefer, Agent Ward,” Coulson said, smiling slightly. “But she’s a valuable asset to this team, like it or not.”

Ward kept his face stiff, blank, as he nodded curtly to his commanding officer, but he was seething. How was he supposed to gain information from Coulson if the man wasn’t even honest about the mission? Coulson had made it sound routine. _Acquisition, interrogation, and then imprisonment or release._ It was supposed to be simple. Contained.

“I’ve made my decision, Agent Ward,” Coulson said, nodding at May and then at Ward. “And Ward? I suggest you learn to get along with her. She’s in it for the long haul.”

So now what? They were keeping this girl, this girl with no last name and no home address, just like that? They couldn’t keep her, this girl who lived out of a van and stole secrets that no one was meant to know, this girl whose laughter mocked the persona he had created, this girl with dark eyes that spoke of a hundred secrets of her own.

_Skye._

And if there was thing Grant Ward, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., was sure of, it was that secrets turned people intro threats. He was supposed to be the only one on the bus with the real secrets, but this stubborn girl was neck-deep in them, he could tell. You live long enough with secrets that could tear you apart, and you begin to understand what it looks like when others carry the same weight.

The super-soldier hadn’t succeeded in giving away any major Centipede secrets, at least, so Ward hadn’t had to take the shot, but it wasn’t Mike Peterson that worried Ward. It was the way the girl refused to back down when no one else thought Mike Peterson could be saved.  

 _Near-zero contact,_ Garrett had told him. _You better make goddamn sure there’s a real problem, or you don’t talk. Period. You could blow the whole thing._

Ward could contact him via his secure com on their next mission—it wouldn’t be too hard to find a moment alone—and Garrett could have this threat neutralized before she caused any damage to the team.

He gritted his teeth, forcing his mind off Garrett. This was _his_ mission—his first major mission for Garrett without his mentor at his side.

 _Don’t blow this,_ he told himself. _And don’t ask for help._

He remembered the last time he had asked Garrett for help. It had been a routine mission except for one thing: he didn’t have an extraction plan; hadn’t even thought to ask for one. He was supposed to cross off a rogue S.H.I.E.L.D. scientist—to go in alone, get it done—and there had been company waiting for him. In hindsight, Ward supposed he should have asked for backup from S.H.I.E.L.D., though he had assumed that no extraction plan had meant that they would deny any involvement if his mission was compromised.

Ward had been trapped, and as always, he had looked to Garrett.

His mentor had been in there in less than half an hour, and the result had been catastrophically brutal. Ward winced at the memory. _No bloodshed_ , Garrett has told him, _I don’t like when it gets messy_. But it had been all mess that day. Suffice it to say that it wasn’t only the scientist who had died that day, and died brutally.

Ward had had to drag Garrett back from the bodies, only to face his mentor’s unbridled wrath once they were back on Garrett’s plane.

Garrett had stalked up to the cockpit in silence to lock their route, and Ward had sagged against the wall of the plane, wearied by the bloodshed and his own inability to control the situation. Ward had closed his eyes, glad for a moment of rest—

And then a hand yanked him from his seat, and Garrett had hurled him against the wall. “ _You. Idiot._ ”

Ward had staggered to his feet.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” Garrett snarled, and for the second time that night, Ward could see his SO losing control. “You’re supposed to _take care of it. On your own._ Goddamn.” Garrett turned away, fists clenched. “You think HQ will miss that it was me you called first, not them? You could have blown my cover. You could’ve _gotten us killed._ ”

Ward winced again, remembering the sick feeling in his gut when Garrett had spoken of his death, remembering how much he had hated himself for his weakness, remembering the thought that had hit him with piercing clarity on that blood night. _I can’t lose him. I can’t._

Ward tried to shut the rest out.

_Then hit me._

He hadn’t recognized his own voice, but he remembered how the words felt, cold against his skin. Like release.

_Excuse me?_

Garrett had stared at him for a long moment, and Ward remembered the slow smile.

_I did this. I fucked this up. I endangered you._

_Damn right you did._

_So hit me. Hit me!_

And after that all Ward could remember was that everything wrong with him broke and fell away under John Garrett’s fists.

“Ward? Ward?” the girl’s voice dragged him out of the past, and when he looked up, he could see that she had been standing at his doorway for at least a few minutes.

“Skye,” he said curtly.

“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot”—

Ward stood abruptly, and she broke off midsentence, staring up at him. “Umm… you ok?” she asked uncertainly, setting down the bottle and glass she had been carrying. “I mean, for big faceless government organization?”

A hint of a smile twisted his lips, and he looked away from her. “Yea,” he said coldly. “I’m fine.”

“Well—great,” she said, taking the tiniest of steps away from him. “So—fancy a drink?” She held up the bottle again, grinning at him.

“Here,” he pushed a pamphlet which had been lying onto his desk into Skye’s hands. “Read it.”

He turned to go, ignoring the light touch of her arm brushing his, and moved past her, wincing from the ghosts of a hundred forgotten bruises.


	9. The Asset

Ward pushed open the door to his room and slowly lowered himself onto his bunk, closing his eyes.

Good god, what a day.

An 0-8-4 capable of blowing up their plane, a rogue team aboard taking over their bus—all because of Coulson’s myopic trust in the wrong people, of course—and… Skye.

Grant rubbed a hand over his temples wearily, wincing when he accidentally brushed a gash on his forehead. “Part of the solution,” she had told him. “Pieces solving a puzzle.”

And he was the piece that didn’t fit.

“Sit up,” her voice jerked him out of his thoughts for the second time that day. She was carrying a med kit that she had commandeered from god-knows-where—it certainly hadn’t come from the scientist and the tech, Fitz and Simmons, or Simmons and Fitz. He couldn’t remember which was which.

“God,” he muttered angrily. “What are you doing?”

“Sit up,” she repeated, dropping onto his bed next to him. “Your face needs to be cleaned up.” She smiled at him brightly, but her eyes—there was that look again, that look that terrified him.

_What secrets are you hiding, Skye? The variable. The piece of the puzzle. Who are you, really?_

“I’m fine,” he said gruffly. _Play your part, Ward. Gruff. Stand-off-ish. S.H.I.E.L.D., through and through._

“Your head is still bleeding, you idiot,” she shook her head, smiling. She reached out and dabbed at the gash on his forehead, and he winced. “Sorry,” she cringed. “Sorry, but I have to. If you don’t clean out the wound, infection could set in—well,” she paused, as if she wanted to add more to the list of ailments that would befall him if he didn’t let her repair his injuries. “If you don’t clean it out, it’ll only get worse.”

The cool cloth moved slowly across the deepest gash, and then he felt cool relief spread through the wound when she spread some sort of antibiotic salve across it.

“Thanks,” he said briefly, and she smiled. “And I mean—not about my head. About—today.”

“Pieces solving a puzzle, Agent Ward,” she rose from his bed, smiling down at him so infectiously that it dragged the tiniest smile to his lips once again. “You were a part. I was a part. Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Beautiful?” he laughed roughly, looking away from her and trying to still the shaking of his hands. “I’m just glad to be alive.”

The look in her eyes shifted briefly, softened but distant. “I’m glad, too—err, glad that you’re alive. I mean”—

“You mean, despite that I’m a big faceless government agency?”

“Well, technically,”—she pointed to the logo on his jacket— “you’re not an entire agency,” she said. “You’re just an agent.”

Ward actually laughed out loud this time, a brief laugh that sounded almost harsh against the cold air of his bunk room.

Skye smiled slightly, the corner of her mouth just tilting upwards, and Ward grinned back, getting slowly to his feet.

She touched his shoulder, than snatched her hand back awkwardly. “Stay—just stay. You beat up a bunch of bad guys and—and almost fell out of the plane. So stay. Rest.”

“Rest isn’t part of the job description,” Ward said ruefully, squinting down at her.

_Getting to know you is, though, Skye-with-no-last-name. I’ll do it—I’ll take the Calvary’s advice. I’ll be this girl’s SO and she’ll lead me straight to S.H.I.E.L.D.’s secrets—S.H.I.E.L.D.’s and hers. What are you hiding, rebel-hacker girl with a passion for fixing things?_

“It is when you’re under orders,” Coulson’s voice interrupted his thoughts as he smiled down at Skye.

“Excuse me, sir?” Ward straightened, nearly knocking his head on the doorframe.

“Rest,” Coulson said firmly, but his eyes twinkled slightly. “It’s part of your job description when I say it is. And right now I’m saying you need rest.”

“Yes, sir.” Ward stood uncertainly, and Skye grinned mischievously at him.

“Told you,” she whispered, and then slipped out of his room, grinning over her shoulder at him.

Ward stood alone in his bunk room for a moment, staring at Skye’s retreating back and wondering why he still had that stupid smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“Agent Ward,” Coulson’s voice snapped him to attention. “If I see you out of that room at any point in the next three hours, you’ll be disobeying a direct order?”

“Yup,” Skye says cheerfully. “Even the tin man needs his rest, right AC?”

Coulson smiles down at the girl for a second, and then nods in Ward’s direction. “Get some rest, Ward. It’s been a long day for all of us.”

“You too, Phil,” the Calvary called from the main deck. “You’re under orders.”

Coulson rolled his eyes at Ward, and Ward grinned again as he stretched himself back across his bed, closing his eyes.

Skye had saved his life. What was he going to do about that? One life debt was enough…

_Rest, Ward._

Coulson would have died for any member of the team today. Including him. What the hell was he supposed to do with _that_?

_Rest, Ward._

_Rest._

When he finally fell asleep, it was in the warmth of the sunlight pouring in through his small window. And when Grant Ward awoke surrounded by the light of the sky filling his room, he had never felt more rested. 


	10. Project Quinn

An explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet, and Ward grabbed Skye’s hand. She was soaking wet and shaking like a leaf, and when he had knocked out four of Quinn’s men she had run straight to him, gripping the front of his vest with trembling hands.

“This way,” he called urgently, and her cold hand clung to his. “You okay?”

She nodded, her eyes wide. “I disarmed him,” she chokes out, wringing water from her hair. “Just like you taught me.”

“And then?”

Something exploded somewhere to Ward’s right, obliterating Skye’s response, and he instinctively yanked Skye to the ground, shielding her with his body.

“Come on,” Ward pulled her to his feet. “We have to get out of here. Fitzsimmons, you copy? Coulson?”

“Here,” Simmons said, and even over com Ward could tell she was worried. “Is Skye with you?”

“She’s here,” Ward said, and then turned sharply on Skye. “You went off com, Skye. What the hell were you doing?”

“What needed to be done,” she said softly, and the words stopped him in his tracks.

“What did you say?” he snapped.

“I said I did what needed to be done,” Skye said, looking at him sharply as they rounded the corner of the house. “I needed him to trust me.”

“Coulson,” Ward shouted into the com. “Coulson, we need to get out of here!”

“I’m here.” Coulson’s voice was quiet, muffled.

And then suddenly the ground was solid beneath their feet once again.

Skye was still clinging to his hand, and now she sagged in relief, leaning against him briefly. “Oh, thank god. Is Coulson okay?”

Ward nodded, trying not to flinch as Skye rested briefly against his shoulder.

She noticed—why did she always notice?—and stood up straight. “Sorry—do you have some kind of… I dunno, thing with touching?”

He could feel his face twist in confusion. “Excuse me?” He yanked her by the hand, forcing her to follow him towards Coulson, who was emerging from the building, looking pale and shaken.

“I mean, you flinch anytime someone touches you,” Skye said.

“We almost died—again—and _that’s_ what you’re worried about? Does nothing phase you?”

Skye rolled her eyes. “Well, we’re safe now”—

“Come on,” he cut her off shortly. “Sir, you alright?”

Coulson’s stare was blank, empty, and he still held a gun in his hands.

“Sir?”

“I had to make the hard call,” he said, so quietly Ward barely caught the words.

Skye stepped away from Ward and moved next to Coulson as they made their way through the rubble of Quinn’s courtyard towards the waiting plane. “AC,” she said softly, and he seemed to break out of his trance. “We stopped them from unleashing the machine. That’s something, right?”

Coulson almost smiled, and Ward bit his lip.

“You did well today, Skye,” Coulson said as they reached the ramp onto the plane.

“She went off com,” Ward interjected. “We could have lost her and we would have had no way to know.”

“But you didn’t,” Skye said brightly. “I’m fine and we’re all fine and you have personal space issues that you won’t talk about and—oh, Fitzsimmons, sorry about the com. It was kind of a necessity.”

Ward scowls at her retreating back as May pulls the plane up, before heading to his bunk.

“Ward?” Coulson’s voice stops him. When Ward looked back, the older agent was leaning against the railing of the stairs, exhaustion written across his face. “Are you okay?”

“Just fine, sir,” Ward says, his tone businesslike. _What’s your game? Do you think it makes you different from the others when you pretend to care?_

 _First lesson of espionage,_ Garrett had told him after he had blown his cover on one mission. _No one in this business cares, not really. If they know who you really are, kid, they will not hesitate to bury a bullet in your brain and then spit on your grave before they walk away. But regardless, kid, remember this—they always walk away._

“Good,” Coulson said, his tone just as businesslike. “Will you find Skye and make she’s coping? As her SO, you”—

“Understood, sir,” Ward said quickly, turning and heading towards Skye’s bunk.

Skye had already changed out of her soaking dress when he knocked and pushed open the door.

Ward tried to tap into years of learning under Garrett—what would his mentor do? What would Ward’s orders be?

 “You okay?” he asked, sitting gingerly on the corner of her bed.

She was still shivering slightly, and instinctively he reached out and grabbed a blanket from the bed, wrapping it around her.

She smiled cryptically up at him, and he could not guess what she was thinking.

He never could, it seemed.

“I’m alright,” she said finally, grinning and poking his chest with her finger. “How about you, tin man?”

He rolled his eyes. “It was a job,” he said. “A job that’s done.”

“Oh, yea, no big deal, anti-gravity weapon, armed thugs, psychotic billionaire who wants to turn the world upside down. Quite literally. Just another day in the life of Agent-I’m-hot-shit-Ward.” She dodged the pillow he threw halfheartedly.

“No, really,” he said, elbowing her. “What happened in there?”

“I told him I was working for S.H.I.E.L.D.,” she said nonchalantly, and Ward choked in surprise.

“You didn’t.”

Skye laughed. “And he trusted me. Implicitly.”

“That’s why you ditched the com?”

“No, I just didn’t want to listen to you the whole time, Mr. Mcgrumpy-pants,” she said sarcastically, and he grinned in spite of himself. “What about you? I heard you were getting shot at.” She opened her arm and wrapped the blanket around him, forcing him to move closer to her.

“Shot _at_ ,” Ward said briefly. “Not shot. So that’s the important thing.”

Skye shook her head, her face straight as she leaned in closer. “And here I thought the bullets just bounced off your tough exterior. Oh, did I say tough? I meant warm and friendly, of course”—

He jabbed her in the ribs, but he was laughing now, harder than he had in a long time. Maybe it was simply the relief that made him loosen up—or maybe it was the way her room always seemed to catch more of the sun’s light than any other room—whatever it was, he was beginning to realize he didn’t care.

 _You’re gaining her trust, Ward_ , he reassured himself as he listened to Skye’s infectious laughter.

And when Ward looked up, he saw Coulson walking away with May, wearing a smile on his face as if this had been his intention the entire time.


	11. The Traitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this piece of dialogue from episode 5:  
> “You can’t save someone from themselves, sir." (Ward, after Extremis had caused Chan Ho Yin to explode)  
> “You can if you get to them early enough.” (Coulson, looking at Ward and Skye)

Ward slammed his fist into the wall, and then swore at the pain. “What the _hell_ , Skye?” He had trusted her—she had made him laugh, and he had trusted her. He was an idiot, he was worthless in this position if he let down his guard this easily—

“It’s not—it’s not what it looks like.” Tears stood in her eyes. “Ward, please”—

“Save it,” he snapped. “Where are we dropping her, sir?” he turned to Coulson, whose mouth was set in a hard line.

“We’re not.”

Ward started, think he must have heard wrong. “What do you mean we’re not?”

Coulson gestured to Skye, who held up her bracelet-clad wrist, waving at him in a last-ditch attempt at humor.

Ward turned away. “You think that will be enough?” he asked bitterly. _What else are you hiding, Skye-with-no-last-name? I thought I was gaining your trust. Turns out, you were gaining mine._

_I won’t make the same mistake again._

He’d have to tell Garrett, he realized, and winced in anticipation. He was supposed to be cracking this hacker’s secrets, not letting her steal S.H.I.E.L.D. and Centipede secrets right from under his nose.

Ward stalked away from the two, and before he slammed his door shut, he saw Skye sitting alone, head in her hands. _Good. She deserves it._

Finally alone in his bunk, Ward poured himself a glass of scotch and relaxed back onto his bunk. He could see it all in his mind’s eye—the flames of Extremis, Coulson and May running from the blast, Skye’s dark eyes carrying the reflections of flames—and he shivered slightly. Garrett had helped him overcome every fear—even the well—except this one. The fire.

Ward slid his fingers absently over the three raised lines on his chest and lower abdomen. He remembered those days with a shudder—Garrett’s training had been worth it, of course, but it had been hell at the time. The fire had been the worst of it all, but in the end, it hadn’t been the pain that was the worst of it, but the memories of his brothers that tasted like ash on his tongue…

“Agent Ward?” Coulson’s voice drew him out of his reverie, and Ward jerked his hand away from his scars. He opened the door, and Coulson nodded at him. “My office.”

“Yes, sir.”

He followed Coulson up the winding staircase into Coulson’s office. “What is it you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked, his tone all business.

“Skye.”

Ward sighed impatiently. “What about her?”

“You’re her SO,” Coulson reminded him. “And there’s more to Skye’s story than you know, so I would appreciate if you stopped blowing up every time she’s in the same room as you.”

“She sold us all out,” Ward said stubbornly. “What do you expect me to do?”

Coulson stood up. “She was looking for her family.”

Ward shook his head, not understanding. “Her family, sir?”

“She grew up in an orphanage,” Coulson told him bluntly. “And it was S.H.I.E.L.D. who redacted the only document with information about her past.”

Oh, god. If anyone knew what Skye felt, it was him.

And he could never tell her.

“I see, sir,” Ward nodded, swallowing hard. “May I go?”

“Are you okay?”

Coulson’s words surprise him, and Ward looks up at him, eyes narrowed.

“Sir?”

“I know your family history, son,” Coulson said quietly, his eyes boring into Ward’s until Ward turned away, uncomfortable. “And I know days like today can be rough for you.”

Ward stared at the ground. “You mean because of the fire?” _I’m nobody’s son_ , the words Ward had thrown at Garrett on the day they met.

“Garrett was the one who pulled you out, wasn’t he?”

Ward flinched.

And then nodded.

“And you were trying to save your brother?”

It had happened more than a decade ago, and it still felt like he was being gutted every single time someone mentioned it. Ward nodded again.

“I’m sorry,” Coulson said, and Ward could hear the sorrow in Coulson’s voice.  

 _Stop_ , he thought frantically, _Stop the pity and the project and looking at me like I’m a broken toy you need to fix for your collection. Stop caring, Agent Coulson, stop trying to make_ me _care. That’s something I can never do._

“Ward,” Coulson said, almost as an afterthought. “What you said today after the blast?”

“That you can’t save someone from themselves?”

“What I said was true. You can. If you get to them early enough.”

“You think Skye can still be a part of this team?”

Coulson had it again—that hint of a smile, understanding and compassionate and completely frightening. “It wasn’t Skye I was talking about, Agent Ward.” 


	12. Recompense

_“You piece of shit.”_

Garrett’s words hit him with the force of a fist, but Ward stood, shoulders straight, ready. “I’m sorry, sir.”

“You better fucking be sorry, kid, because you nearly ruined the whole operation! Do you think Hydra can afford this? Do you think _I_ can?”

Ward looked down. “I’m sorry I failed you, sir.”

“You let some hacker get the better of you? Some girl from nowhere and _you don’t even know her goddamn last name_? What the hell did I train you for, Ward?”

“I shouldn’t have contacted you, sir,” Ward said, facing his mentor. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“ _Years_ of training and some untrained girl plays you like a fiddle. Jesus,” Garrett turned away, shaking his head. “And _Coulson_? You’re telling me you trust Coulson? Let me tell you something kid, and it’s something you should know by now. He’ll try to get you to like him, he’ll try to make you think he cares. But kid, when you’re drowning at the bottom of the well, does big brother ever throw you the rope?”

It was like a knife to the gut, but Grant Ward didn’t stagger. Didn’t flinch. Not once. “No, sir.”

“Listen, kid,” Garrett says, his voice a notch softer. “When I found you, you had a lot of potential and not a lot of purpose. Now you have that purpose”—

“You’ve given me purpose, sir,” Ward says gruffly, and it’s true; fourteen-year-old Ward had been about to pull the trigger on himself when Garrett had recruited him.

“You can’t let your guard down. Not ever again.”

“Yes, sir. It won’t happen.”

“You don’t deserve another chance, kid,” Garrett said, and Ward nodded. “But I’m giving you one. _One._ So don’t screw this one up.”

Ward stared at the ground, and he felt it uncurl in the pit of his stomach, dark and unsettling; the shame that was never far from these discussions. He knew he was going to ask before he did—knows he will always ask—and knows he will always deserve it. “Hit me,” he said, his voice hard. “Sir.”

And when Garrett does; when his fist smashes into Ward’s jaw, when he lands a well-placed kick that breaks one rib, then another; it is then and only then that the crying boy struggling at the bottom of the well disappears completely. 


	13. Battleship

“You. Saved. Simmons.” Skye stood in front of him, shaking her head in amazement.

Ward was seated on the couch in the main hub, a cold drink sitting before him.

Skye reached out and placed his glass on a coaster. “Which doesn’t give you a free pass to mess up the bus,” she said. “But seriously, Ward.” Her eyes met his. “That was incredible. _You jumped out of a freaking plane_.”

Ward shrugged as if it was nothing, but he could still feel the weight of it—the desperation, even as he gritted his teeth and reached for the scientist. The weight of unwanted sacrifice.

“I can’t believe you,” Skye was still shaking her head, her eyes bright as she looked at him.

_Don’t make those old mistakes, Ward. Not again._

She climbed onto the couch to sit next to him, bouncing just a little and then curling in so she was sitting right next to him. He scooted away just slightly, and she elbowed him playfully in the side. “Personal space issues again, Agent-I-jump-out-of-planes-everyday-Ward?” He tried not to wince as her elbow collided with his healing ribs. Garrett had hit hard last time.

Skye’s expression sobered when she saw the expression on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yea, fine,” he said gruffly, and Skye put a hand on his harm.

“You’re a shitty liar, my friend,” she said, her tone light, but her eyes fierce with emotion. “And if you need—oh my god, Fitz, what do you think you’re doing with Battleship? Ward and I are going to play.”

Grumbling, the tech handed it to her, and behind him, the scientist rolled her eyes. “Oh, Fitz, it’s not as if I was going to be able to play. I’ve got to check my vitals and brief Coulson, and besides, it requires strategy, and we all know you were never very good”—

“It requires stabbing in the dark,” Skye interrupts her, smacking the game on the table. “And I am _damn_ good at that. Besides, you should see him when he loses. He pouts for hours.”

_Does this count as gaining her trust, Garrett? Because I’m tired of playing this act, playing the part of a person I can never be. I’m so tired._

“B-4,” Skye grinned.

“Shit,” Ward said.


	14. Fragility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set before/during the events of "The Well." The bar dialogue is based on the actual scene in AoS, but the dialogue is reimagined slightly. All characters belong to Marvel, of course.

A week ago, the most dangerous thing his team had experienced was a mission with no extraction plan for Ward and the technician, a kid so new to field ops he had packed himself a sandwich. Now, the world had changed all over again—gods and aliens and monsters crashing through London the way they had decimated New York not so long ago. It was all Ward could do not to contact Garrett, who had been the one to hold him together when the battle of New York destroyed Ward’s perception of the world for the first time.

Coulson had assigned them all to clean-up duty in London, while S.H.I.E.L.D. had removed Thor’s scientist and her team from harm’s way and Thor was currently off the grid.

The tech—Ward had finally figured out that he was the one named Fitz, and the scientist was Simmons—had some sort of gadgets whizzing about the trashed room, sorting out alien technology from the rubble.

The scientist was picking at some small piece of the alien ship, and Ward took it from her and placed it into a S.H.I.E.L.D. briefcase, snapping the lock shut.

“Oh, he’s dreamy,” Agent May’s was telling Skye and Coulson, and Ward could see that Coulson was trying his best not to roll his eyes at the two women.

Ward stood up straighter. _Is that my job then, Garrett? Am I good-looking enough for the Calvary?_

Grant Ward, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., had played many parts of over his lifetime, but seduction had never been one of them.

“Agent Ward, we have a new mission,” Coulson said briskly, nodding his head towards the rest of the team as he handed Ward the phone with the information and coordinates. “Brief the others. May, how soon can the Bus be ready?”

“Wheels up in ten,” the agent called over her shoulder, and Ward sighed impatiently.

 _Why does he always leave me in charge of rounding up Skye and the kids? Fitz never stops rambling—or snacking, goddamnit—and Simmons only encourages it._ Ward grinned ever so slightly at the memory of Fitz with that gigantic sandwich Simmons had made for him.

“Wrap it up, Fitz,” Ward called, and Skye linked her arm through his. “So if you could get your hands on anything alien, what would you choose?”

“A time… thingy. Warper?”

“That’s not a word, Agent Ward,” Simmons said crisply, exchanging an eye roll with Fitz.

“I mean I would go into warp speed”—

“Like Star Trek?” Skye laughed. “Alright, Spock”—

“I’d be light years ahead of all of you,” Ward said. “Oh wait, that’s right. I’m already light years ahead of you, Skye,” he teased.

She elbowed him in the ribs, laughing, but it caught him off guard, and he tried not to flinch as his barely-healed ribs felt the impact.

“Did my SO tell just make a joke? AC, did you hear that? Spock here just cracked a joke.”

Ward groaned, hiding his grin. “Oh god, not another one.”

“How many nicknames do you have now, Agent Ward?” Fitz asked, snapping the last of his ridiculous robots—apparently they all had names? Fitz had smacked Ward’s hand when he’d tried to touch them—into its case.

“Too many,” Ward said.

“Ward, I told you to wrap it up,” Coulson called. “Fitzsimmons, we need to go.” His voice sounded urgent. “Skye, I need your help. Come on, all of you. On the bus.”

\-----

The Berserker staff, they called it. Plaything of gods and monsters.

It felt like power in his hands, but no one tells you that power scorches your palms, burns through you until you are empty, until your mouth tastes of ash, until there is nothing left but an empty shell of who you were, drowning in the abyss of your own rage.

It ravaged him, and what he saw, what he felt, what he _did_ with that staff in his fists… it could never be erased.

Ward had taken out a dozen men in the isolated Dublin church, taken them out because Skye was standing behind him, because Skye had run to him, first, not caring about the enraged maniacs on all sides, not caring about anything except for him…

He fell.

_The boy at the bottom of the well was sobbing, desperate, fighting the water. “Grant,” he called. “Grant, please…”_

_And he was weak, he was_ so _weak. He stood there, watching the younger boy tread water, his fists clenched to keep the tears from running down his face._

_“Grant, help me…”_

_“Not yet,” the older boy told him, and Ward had hoped he’d have the strength to withstand him._

_He had thrown the rope, finally, pulled the shaking child out of the waters to safety. But there had been no one to rescue him that day, no one to rescue Grant, no one to throw him that rope._

_It was the day Grant died…_

Ward opened his eyes. He had beaten them all, and he couldn’t stand to look. Were any of them still alive? Had he destroyed it all? He couldn’t hear he couldn’t think he couldn’t—

“Grant,” the word tore through the empty shell of Grant Ward’s rage. Skye was crouching beside him. “Grant, come here.” She pulled his arm over her shoulder, and he leaned against her, entirely spent.

Faintly, at the edge of his vision, he saw another woman enter the room, her eyes alight with the same rage that was still pumping furiously through Ward’s veins. His whole body heaved with a sigh, and he tried to push himself to his feet.

“This time,” May stopped him with a gesture of her hand. “Let me.”

And if Ward had ever doubted what Melinda May was capable of, it was erased from his mind now. The battle was over in seconds, and May clutched the staff, her face showing little emotion.

Skye’s arm was still around him, and Ward leaned on her. Her voice was soft, soothing, and Ward found himself shaking.

 _Grant,_ she had called him. _No one had called him by that name since the day he allowed his younger brother to nearly drown in that well._ The _well._

Skye pulled him to his feet, her hands gentle. “Grant, it’s okay. It’s okay, we’re okay.”

May nodded stiffly at him, and Ward nodded back at her.

But it was Skye he clung to as they left the shambles of the church, and it was Skye he stayed with on their way to the hotel for the night.

Coulson pulled him aside when they arrived and asked if he was alright, but Ward just shook his head, for a moment not caring that he had a cover to maintain as the untouchable Agent Ward.

Skye found him again at the bar, as he downed his first drink too quickly.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

 _Good, fine, alright_ , he tried to say. _Like water off my back. I’m an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., it’s all part of my job._

“Not great,” he admitted, and she placed a hand on his arm. He looked up at her, startled by the compassion in her dark eyes. “Look—I’m sorry. About… before? On the bus? I shouldn’t have… I’m not that guy…”

_What are you telling her, Grant Ward? What are you doing?_

“You’re a guy who saves lives,” she said firmly, and Ward felt the words twist in the pit of his stomach. “I can deal with that on occasion.”

_Oh, Skye. What is it you see in myself that I can’t? And why does it feel so important that I am that guy?_

_I want to be that guy._

_I just never had a choice._

“I said some terrible things back on the bus,” he says tentatively. “Things that weren’t true. I don’t—I don’t mind—when you talk.”

“That wasn’t you, Grant. Besides, I can deal with it, remember? No sweat.”

“Does _everything_ just roll off your back?” he grinned slightly despite himself, surprised again—Skye never _stopped_ surprising him, apparently—at how little she was phased.

“No,” she said, and suddenly her bright eyes were fierce as she looked at him. “If it helped, I’d rage all the time. But it doesn’t.”

And Ward knew once again he’d underestimated this girl. She was a conundrum, this girl with no last name, this girl with a heart of compassion and a face full of laughter and dark brown eyes that hinted of her own private hells. Of a rage she fought with the depth of her compassion.

“It was about my brother,” he blurted, hating himself the minute the words spilled past his lips. But then he saw Skye’s look and felt some of his own self-hatred fading back when he realized that she knew, of course she knew, and what was worse, she understood.

“I figured,” was all she said, but then she moved closer, her hand still on his arm. “Listen, I know today was hell and you’re not Mr. Talkative, but if you ever… well, if it ever gets to be too much, my shoulder’s free.”

Ward looked down at her, this small, fierce girl who looked like a safe haven to him. It hit him, finally, how deeply he’d been compromised already, and he knew his only alternative was to run away from her far and fast.

Because Grant Ward knew his weakness—that it was not the rage and fear and sadness of his memories, or even this new, already-deep-set attraction to Skye that could destroy him, but the fearless hope in her eyes that made him almost want to believe in a world that could never be. 


	15. Celebration

Ward sighed heavily, relaxing onto the couch in the main hub. Across the room, Fitz and Simmons were chattering about their time at their academy—it’s all they seemed to do since the incident there a few weeks back—and Skye was showing Coulson a file on one of their latest missions.

He hadn’t been sleeping well. Coulson had been kidnapped about a month ago to find out about the miracle drug that had resurrected him, and Ward knew, he _knew_ , that Garrett needed the answers this drug would provide. It could even save him.

But Ward could not erase the memory of Coulson’s battered face from his memory; that or the image of Skye holding Coulson’s broken body in her arms and begging him to wake up.

Skye, who had been kicked off the bus by S.H.I.E.L.D. and had been the one to trace Coulson’s location faster than the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. organization.

A few weeks ago, Ward had woken himself with his own violent tossing and turning. He’d made his way into the main hub of the Bus, and found Skye there, a blanket around her shoulders.

She hadn’t said anything at first, just handed him a cup of the tea she had made. He sat beside her, silent and shivering, and she’d wrapped her blanket around his shoulders. “Was it about your brother?” she had asked finally, and he couldn’t look at her.

“Coulson,” Ward had whispered, feeling shame uncurl in the pit of his stomach. _Because it was my fault. Because I could have gotten to Coulson sooner. Because Garrett will die without this drug and because Coulson might die getting it for us. Because I can’t save them both. I never can._

Skye had just taken his hand in hers, silently. “You’re not the only one who can’t sleep at night,” she had told him finally, and her eyes had bored into his with an overwhelming sadness that made Ward want to pull her into his arms.

And, of course, he couldn’t.

Because of orders and old loyalties, because a man had pulled him from hell and you can’t forget that kind of debt, not ever.

“Wa-ard,” Skye called now, pulling him away from his thoughts of his former SO. “Earth to Ward. Come on tin man, did I lose you for a second?”

Ward gave her his practiced, annoyed-serious-S.H.I.E.L.D.-agent half-smirk. “I’m off the clock, Skye.”

“Nope,” she said. “You’re my SO and I need you.”

“Skye”—

“No buts.”

Ward rolled his eyes and sighed, and she grabbed his hand and pulled him to his feet. “Where are we going?” he asked resignedly.

“We need to go over my skills in espionage,” she said unexpectedly. “You know, you’ve taught me all about hand-to-hand and I’ve had target practice”—

“I have not scratched the surface on hand-to-hand,” he interrupted. “And you still say ‘bang’ every time you pull the trigger on a gun. You’re not ready for anything else”—

“Coulson’s orders.”

“ _No_. You’re kidding me.”

“Ask him,” Skye said, grinning mischievously. “But he’s currently meeting with Commander Hill about some level eight-ish stuff, and I seriously doubt he wants to be interrupted right now. But if you want to suffer the wrath of Coulson”—

Ward rolled his eyes. “Fine. But this is more of a mental game than a physical one, so maybe we should start with learning tactical planning and strategy before I teach you how to adopt a cover and stick with it.”

“So basically, you just want to play Battleship until I forget about this idea?”

“Basically.”

“Fine, then,” Skye said, and he saw a smirk on her face as if she had just won. “Battleship it is. This way, sir. Can we play at the table?”

“In the kitchen?” Ward cocked his head. “We never play there.”

“Yea, we always cram on the seats in the bus because you’re worried there might be turbulence and your ships will get knocked out of place before I have the chance to sink them.”

Ward tried his best to scowl down at her, but her grin got the better of him, and he just shook his head again. “The kitchen then. And I’ll win this round.”

He pushed open the door—

“Surprise!”

The kitchen, usually a cold, functional gray, was decorated in an obnoxiously bright, overdone way, with streamers hanging from the ceiling. Fitzsimmons were holding up a cake with candles in it, and Coulson was leaning against the table, smiling at Ward’s surprise. Behind them, May was rolling her eyes, but smiling in spite of herself.

“We thought”—

“Since it’s your birthday”—

“Which Skye found out, by the way”—

“Yea, when she broke into Coulson’s office”—

“We thought we should celebrate”—

“You’re the first person to have a birthday on the bus, and we thought”—

“We’d bake a cake”—

“Well, Fitz thought”—

“And Jemma’s good at baking”—

The two young agents talked over each other, completing each other’s sentences, but Ward tuned them out. He turned to Skye, his jaw all but hanging open. “What—you”—

“Happy birthday, Grant,” she said, her eyes sparkling, and unexpectedly, Ward felt his throat clench with emotion.

“I—don’t know what to say,” he said awkwardly, his tone gruff.

Simmons set down the cake and gave him a brief hug, and Skye followed her lead.

“You’ll have to forgive me if I’m not really up for hugging you quite yet, Agent Ward,” Fitz said, making a face, but he was smiling, too.

“Happy birthday, Agent Ward,” Coulson said, his voice still professional as always.

May just nodded to him, but Ward saw the light in her eyes as she looked around at her team.

Long after May and Coulson had dismissed themselves on the excuse that they didn’t have time for birthday parties, Ward sat in the tiny kitchen under the brightly-colored streamers, listening to Fitzsimmons and Skye telling stories and filling the small room with laughter.

“And then,” Simmons said dramatically. “Skye _picked the lock on Coulson’s door_. Can you believe it? She disabled the security settings—all of them, he has about three hundred security defense mechanisms, Fitz designed most of them—and then she hacked into his computer to get your file so she could find out your birthday.”

Ward felt a twinge of panic at the thought of the three of them reading his file. S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t know the half of it, but what they did have… it would make anyone back far, far away from him.

“She wouldn’t let us in to look at the file,” Fitz added.

“I only had time to look at the birth date and run, anyway,” Skye said, as if guessing Ward’s concern. “Because Coulson came in.”

Ward laughed aloud this time, shaking his head for probably the fourth time since Skye had dragged him in here. “He didn’t.”

“He _did_ ,” Simmons said, glad for an appreciative audience. “And Fitz and I were with her, so we figured we’d be in big trouble, too, but he just kicked us out and yelled at Skye for a while.”

“Until we found May,” Fitz interjected. “And we told her what was going on, and she just rolled her eyes and said she’d deal with Coulson. She explained it to him, and I’ve never seen him laugh so hard when he realized what we were all doing.”

“All this for a birthday,” Ward said, smiling just slightly. “But—thank you. All of you,” he stumbled over the words awkwardly, but Fitzsimmons smiled and nodded as one, and Skye squeezed his arm.

It was later that night—much later—when Ward sat alone with Skye on the couches in the main hub. He wasn’t even going to try sleeping tonight, not knowing what he did, and not after these people who he was not supposed to care about had given him a surprise birthday party. Not after Skye had broken into a secure office and illegally hacked into classified documents just to insure that his day was a good one.

“It was the first time I’ve ever celebrated my birthday,” Ward admitted suddenly, breaking the silence, and Skye looked up at him.

“I figured,” she said softly.

Ward looked away.

“Grant,” she said quietly, but her tone was insistent. “Grant, you need to sleep. I know you’re blaming yourself for everything that’s happened, and I know that you’re supposed to be Mr. Super-Spy-Tin-Man, but you can’t let the good days like today make you believe you’re unworthy of them.”

The words were a knife, twisting in his gut with the raw truth of them.

“I—I didn’t”—

“Just stay here,” Skye interrupted him. “Stay here with me, and it’ll be okay. Just fall asleep here.”

So he stayed, silent because he knew he had to, but resting, because she was here, because she knew his nightmares and still she stayed. And when he was drifting off to sleep and someone was folding a blanket over him, he heard words that he could not remember later if they were dream or reality.

_“I knew that no one had ever celebrated your birthday, Grant,” the words were barely more than a whisper. “But I need you to know that your life, it’s worth celebrating, okay? It is to me.”_


	16. Lost

There was blood so much blood, on his hands and buried under his nails and it should not be her blood should not should not should not.

 _Oh god what have I done? What has_ Garrett _done?_

Fitzsimmons were curled up on the couch in the waiting room, and Coulson was staring into space as if he could not fathom what had happened. May just stood, still in a fighter’s stance, and Ward knew she would kill Quinn in an instant if Skye didn’t make it through this.

_Oh, Skye, Skye._

_Please. I need you to make it through this._

A nurse entered the room, and Ward was on his feet. “ _Skye_.” The word escaped his lips before he realized it, and she looked at him, her eyes soft with sympathy.

 _Don’t_ , he thought. _Don’t say it. It’s not true_.

“We can make her comfortable,” the nurse said, and Ward didn’t hear anymore, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see—

Coulson shook his head, and Simmons leaned her head against Fitz’s shoulder, but Ward did the only thing he knew.

He felt the rage spread through every vein, worse than the Berserker staff, worse than the memory of the well.

_Skye._

_Skye, who was always strong enough to toss him a rope, no matter how dark the well was. Skye, with her laughter and her hope and her words that had slowly become his lifeline._

_Skye can’t die._

_Please._

May had taken her anger out on the trigger man, Quinn, but Ward found a better way. He went straight to Garrett.

And this time, Ward stood straight and tall and didn’t ask Garrett to make him stronger, didn’t ask for a lesson in pain the way he usually did. This time, he held every word Skye had said close to his heart, and let the rage out through his own fists.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t waiting for someone to give orders.

Grant Ward was ready to kill.

Until Garrett reminded him why.

Why he was still alive today. Why his life had purpose, had meaning. Why a piece-of-shit kid had gone anywhere with his life.

And why Ward’s orders right now weren’t about Hydra any more than they were about S.H.I.E.L.D.

They were about saving the man who had once saved him.

 _Skye is off limits_ , Ward had told him before Garrett had joined them on the bus. _I don’t care what you need, find another way._

And Garrett had promised, told him that if he’d known how much the girl meant to him he would never have issued the kill order.

Skye was in critical condition, and there was no one else there to pull him out of his nightmares, so Ward didn’t sleep.

Because every time he closed his eyes, he saw Skye falling, falling, falling, with two bullets ripping open her stomach.

But it wasn’t Ian Quinn pulling the trigger.

It was him.


	17. Recovery

“ _Skye! Skye! Simmons, make it stop— **Skye**!”_ Ward heard the words leave his mouth without consciously realizing he was shouting, screaming almost.

Skye’s body arched in the hospital bed, her whole body crying out against the drug coursing through her veins.

“ _Skye!_ ”

She cried out in pain, and Ward felt the sound in his gut, sharper than any knife.

And then—

It was finished.

Simmons smiled up at Coulson, relief written across her face, and Ward sagged against the wall behind him and breathed for what seemed the first time since Skye had been shot.

“She’s stabilizing,” Simmons said, and Fitz put his arm around her. Even May had a small smile on her face, and she touched Coulson’s arm gently.

“Girl’s a fighter,” Agent Triplett—Garrett’s newest agent—said, and Ward could hear relief in his voice, too. “What was that stuff you gave her?”

“I don’t know,” Simmons said quickly. “All I know is that it worked.”

Garrett didn’t turn to look at him, but Ward knew what he was thinking. That this was it, the drug Garrett needed to survive…

Ward had spent over five years looking for a solution like this, ever since Garrett had dragged him from a burning wreck of a building through heavy gunfire and then taken a bullet to his gut. He would have died, too, within a few days, but for the metal cyborg piece that Hydra had fitted him with. The metal cyborg piece that was now killing him; it had only ever been a temporary solution.

When they had heard that Agent Coulson had been resurrected by some alien drug, Garrett had sent him looking.

But it didn’t feel the way it was supposed to. It didn’t feel like victory, not with Skye lying so pale and broken before him.  

Skye recovered quickly after that, and Simmons called it a miracle. “And when I say _miracle_ , of course I don’t mean it was actually a miracle. It’s just a science we don’t understand yet,” she reassured them.

Ward still didn’t sleep.

Instead, he paced outside the med pod, hour after hour, until, three days later, he saw her stirring.

He was there when she woke, messy and groggy.

“You look terrible, Tin Man,” were the first words she said, her lips curving up into what was an almost-normal smile.

“You look great,” he said, grinning down at her with relief. “How do you feel?”

“Like utter shit,” she said, and he laughed.

“You’ve been through a lot.” _And it’s my fault._ He could feel the smile die on his face.

“Hey,” she said, her eyebrows scrunching as she looked up at him critically. “I’m okay. Don’t look so disappointed.”

He tried to smile.

“So he hasn’t slept in about three days, has he, AC?” she asked, and Ward turned to find that Coulson had entered quietly behind him.

“No—no—I slept the other day,” Ward said vaguely, stepping back so Coulson could take the chair beside her bed.

“Good to see you awake,” Coulson said, smiling down at the girl. “You had us worried.”

“Well, I’m fine. No scratch that, I’m terrible, but I’m not dead. Look on the bright side, right, AC?”

Ward smiled slightly. Trust Skye to find a positive angle on a near-fatal gunshot wound.

He found Garrett later, just before Garrett and Triplett said their goodbyes to the team. “We found the drug,” Ward said tersely. “So promise me you’ll give me a little warning next time you send out a kill order on one of my team.”

“ _Your_ team, Ward?” Garrett’s laugh came out as a hiss. “Listen, you should’ve told me how you felt about the girl. And we have the drug now. We have answers.”

Ward sighed heavily, and looked over his shoulder at the med pod, where Skye was resisting Fitzsimmons’s orders to stay still and Coulson and May were laughing at something she said.

“Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten Prague,” Garrett said coldly, and Ward shook his head quickly.

“I don’t forget.”

“So if this drug saves me?” his stare was brutal, but Ward met him, eye-to-eye.

“Then it was worth it, sir,” Ward said quietly, but in his mind’s eye he could still see Skye, bleeding out in Ian Quinn’s basement.

And for the first time in Grant Ward’s life, he began to wish he had never chosen to follow John Garrett. 


	18. Realizations

“This time there will be no mercy,” Ward said, his eyes boring into his opponents. “There will be only defeat.”

“C-6,” Skye said.

“Shit.” Grant shook his head in frustration. “Hit and sunk.”

“Oooh,” Skye crowed. “So when you were talking about defeat, you meant yours, right?”

“I was going easy on you.”

“No mercy, huh?” she laughed, pulling her ships off one by one and placing them back in the battered box. “How many times have you won now, Grant? I could count on one hand, because—oh, wait! What was that? The super spy hasn’t won _any_ against me, has he?”

Ward tried not to grin at the triumph in Skye’s tone.

“I’ll put this away, I guess,” she said. “Unless, of course, you would like me to beat you again? I didn’t think so. Hey, Coulson, did you know our favorite super spy really sucks at Battleship?”

“I did know that, actually,” Coulson said, smiling at Skye, but when he looked at Ward, his eyes were dark with concern. “Agent Ward, meet me in my office in five.”

Ward had seen Skye back to her bunk, even though she insisted she didn’t need a babysitter—“I’m fine, Ward. I haven’t been shot at for three weeks now.”—and then made his way up to Coulson’s office.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes,” Coulson seated himself behind his desk and folded his hands, looking up at Ward. “I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Me, sir?” Ward looked at him in surprise.

“I realize that the last few weeks have been difficult for all of us,” Coulson continued. “With Skye, of course, but they haven’t been easy for you, either.”

“Sir?”

“The incident with Lorelei”—

“I’m sorry, sir,” Ward said, looking away. It had been hell, coming out of Lorelei’s spell and realizing that he could have hurt his whole team, could have blown his cover, could have lost everything… and perhaps the strangest part of the fear he felt was the vague memory of joining Lorelei in bed.

“I know that she had sex with you while you were under her spell,” Coulson said bluntly, and Ward looked away, feeling again that odd shame uncurling in the pit of his stomach. “And I wanted to say that I’m sorry, because none of what happened was your choice.”

“I could have hurt our team, sir, and for that I’m sorry”—

“No, Ward, I’m talking about how she hurt you. I know you chose none of it, including the sex.”

 _What are you trying to say, Coulson? That I was raped?_ Ward hadn’t said the word before, even in his thoughts.

“If you need some time”—

“No,” Ward said abruptly. “I need to protect our team.”

Coulson nodded and stood, still looking at him sharply. “You’ll tell me if you need anything.”

Ward swallowed hard, surprised as always by the way Coulson cared. “Of course, sir.”

Coulson sighed. “Then you’re free to go.” Ward nodded and turned to go. “And Ward?”

Ward looked back over his shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

“Stay close to Skye for me, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said emphatically. “We need to keep her safe. I’ve been too lax about it so far, and she”—

“I wasn’t talking about you keeping her safe,” Coulson interrupted him. “Though that’s important, too. You need to stick with her, because she’s good for you, Agent Ward. She’s good for all of us.”


	19. Atonement

There was blood on his hands again. An old man’s. An _innocent_ old man’s.

And it was all because he had threatened Skye.

They had been hunting down Deathlok, Garrett’s newest super soldier, and he had led them to Garrett’s clairvoyant plant.

It seemed strange to Ward, then, that he could focus his hatred so well. He knew the man wasn’t the Clairvoyant; knew who had really issued the kill order on Skye, and in a second it didn’t matter.

The old man had said that Skye would die, he had said that it was the Clairvoyant’s orders. _Garrett wouldn’t. Not after he promised._ But Ward had fired.

Coldly. Without remorse.

Two bullets into Thomas Nash’s heart.

It had felt almost like revenge.

Garrett had found a moment alone, later, to let him know he did not approve, and this time, Ward welcomed the beating.

Welcomed the way that Garrett’s fists seemed to erase everything he’d done, erase everything he was.

Garrett had broken one of his ribs, left bruises everywhere, but had spared his face. “Gotta keep your cover, kid,” he had said, and Ward had nearly laughed at the twisted irony.

Now he was sitting alone in a cell aboard the Bus, and Coulson was staring at him in disappointment.

 _Stop_ , Ward wanted to scream at him. _Stop acting like there was ever going to be a different choice for me. Stop acting like you care so much._

When Coulson left, Skye pushed her way in. “I’m not technically supposed to be here, am I?” she asked nonchalantly, handing him a water bottle. “I had to disable like four different security protocol things to get in.”

Ward barely cracked a smile as he took the water bottle from her. “Thanks,” he said quietly, and she paused, her eyes growing serious.

“Why?” she asked softly, and Ward suddenly wished he had the gun back in his hands so he could turn it on himself, make the longing and the sadness in her eyes disappear.

“I don’t regret it,” he said fiercely. “Not if it means you’re safe. You—and the rest of the team, of course.”

_But what does it matter, anyway, what you think?_

_I was never worth you._

_Not for one second of my shit-heap of a life have I been worthy of you._

The command came later that night, when Garrett was almost shot out of the sky, when Coulson told them Victoria Hand must be the Clairvoyant, when the signal flashed across their screen: H.Y.D.R.A.

Ward had always thought the moment would bring a feeling of excitement, a bit of a thrill, to step out of the shadows and into the light, as Garrett said. Even if Hydra didn’t really matter much more than S.H.I.E.L.D., Ward had always thought that he would have felt something.

But it was nothing but a sinking feeling, shame and guilt and more fear than ever, when he saw it on the screen.  

He barely saw the elation on his mentor’s face—because for Ward, there was only one face that mattered, and that was the girl with fierce dark eyes and no last name, the girl looking at him as if was going to be the one to provide the solution to this.

It was then that Grant realized he had a choice.

That if he made it out of the shit storm that was coming, he was going to tell her. He was going to have that drink—and tell her everything, about his brothers and Garrett and the debt he owed him, about the shame and fear and the way Garrett’s fists made it seem so much less powerful—no matter how much she hated him afterwards.

He owed Skye that.

He should have known that he was never going to get that chance.

No, it was more than that.

He’d made too many choices.

Done too many unforgivable things.

He should have known that we was never _worth_ that chance. 


	20. Choice

“If I make it out of this, let’s get that drink. You and me.” Ward’s hand closed tighter around the two night-night guns, and he looked down at her sadly.

_Maybe it’s better to leave this way, before she knows what I really am. Better to die before I have to choose._

But Skye didn’t let him go. “ _When_ we make it out of this, then yes. Let’s have that drink.”

There was so much hope in her eyes—the way she said “when” and not “if,” the way she still smiled when the whole world was crumbling beneath her feet—that Ward was dangerously close to believing she might be right.

_I’m going to tell her, and let her decide what to do with me if I can get both of us out of this alive. And if I die paving her path, maybe it’s worth it._

Skye pushed open the door, her eyes fierce and steady as she focused on him, and then she nodded, and he stepped through the doors, guns out.

They were his men, really—Hydra—and Ward watched them fall, one by one. A well-placed elbow, a fist, a kick that shattered one soldier’s kneecaps.

He had counted twelve men, foot-soldiers, and now eight of them were on the ground.

 _Pave the way, Grant Ward_.

One soldier shoved him against the wall, and Ward pulled him down, bringing his knee up to the man’s face, but two more soldiers had already grabbed him, throwing him to the ground.

_Pave her way, Grant Ward._

He fought hard—he always fought hard, but there were too many of them, too many—

A well-aimed kick hit him in the ribs, and Grant felt the air leave his lungs.

_Skye._

_Skye._

_For her._

And then he felt a knife in his fist, felt adrenaline racing through his veins, and he was on his feet.

_For Skye._

One man was down, then two, then three, and the last man faced him, frozen in fear for an instant before Ward’s fist knocked him backwards into unconsciousness.

Ward flung open the door to the storage closet, and he could see relief wash visibly over Skye’s face. “Oh thank god,” she whispered, letting out her breath in a whoosh of air.  

“You ready to hack this system?”

“Who said anything about hacking?” she grinned, and she opened her backpack to reveal a jumble of wires that could only be a homemade bomb.

He grinned in spite of himself, in spite of the impossible situation before them.

This girl never stopped surprising him.

And Ward could not help but think he wanted her to keep surprising him every single day of his life.

That was before everything he had planned came crashing down. There would be no drink, no confession—and no absolution, no forgiveness for all that he had done. All that he would have to do, all that he would have to become.

Garrett had blown his own cover deliberately in front of Coulson, and Ward knew why. Knew his mentor had noticed the way that Skye had compromised him over the past few months. Knew Garrett was forcing him to choose.

And when he saw John Garrett, the man who had saved his life and pulled him out of hell, being led away in handcuffs, Ward knew the choice had been made long ago.

Because Grant Ward was and had always been a weapon, and weapons were not made to find happiness with girls whose fierce dark eyes looked like hope.


	21. Falling

_The plane took off, the hum of the engines a steadying force against the adrenaline racing through Ward’s hands._

_Hand was pacing, and Garrett was staring arrogantly back, a smirk on his face, because, of course, he already knew that his weapon was waiting, poised to strike._

_Ward thought of his team briefly._

_May, the warrior. She’d had his back for months, and a part of him had craved her friendship after he saw her fight for the team. Fight for Coulson._

_Coulson, the guide. Ward winced at the memories—the way Coulson had pushed him to spend time with Skye as if he had known how she was becoming his saving grace. How Coulson had been the only one to give words to the shame he had felt after Lorelei._

_And Fitzsimmons. Ward tried to remember when it had changed; when they were no longer “the scientist” and “the tech” to him; when he had remembered which one was Fitz and which one was Simmons. Was it when Fitz, that idiot kid, tried to jump out of a plane because he couldn’t bear to live without the girl who was his light? When Simmons had patched them up, time and time again? When she had fought for Skye’s life?_

_And Skye._

_The variable who was never supposed to be part of the team. The girl with no last name. The rookie who had baffled him and surprised him with her compassion and compromised him when she looked at him with those fierce brown eyes that had seen too much of the world and still managed to hope._

_Skye, breaking into a secure office because she wanted to celebrate his birthday. Skye, outsmarting both Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D. at every turn and making every second of his mission more difficult in the best possible way. Skye, telling him his life was worth it…_

_Skye._

Ward looked up to see Garrett watching him intently, almost as if he knew what Ward was thinking, and Ward forced his thoughts away from his team.

He remembered the hell he lived in, remembered the rescue. Remembered waking up to find that Garrett had carried him out of a burning wreck under heavy gunfire; remembered watching Garrett nearly die because he had saved Ward.

Some debts go deeper, no matter the price.

So Ward steadied himself in Garrett’s eyes and forgot everything else, as he always did. Forgot the darkness of the well, forgot his own inabilities and weaknesses, forgot the false words of hope his team had fed him for several months.

He thought of orders and mentors and the price of being rescued, and it steeled him as he reached out to take the gun that Victoria Hand offered.

But he wasn’t thinking, wasn’t thinking anything at all, as his finger pulled the trigger.

Three times.

And afterwards, when Garrett’s eyes met his, it almost felt like old times. It almost felt good not to feel, to step over the bodies of the past and keep on going, never looking back. It certainly felt like relief to be controlled again, to be able to control what he did and felt.

No variables, just John Garrett, an arsenal of weapons, and the freeing knowledge that there were some choices that destroyed you.

Some choices that meant no going back.


	22. Descending

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were too easy to deceive. Again, like old times.

 _Find a common enemy_ , Garrett had told him often throughout his training. _And anyone will be your friend_.

When the agents guarding the Fridge doors had seen their enemy firing at Ward, they had opened the doors for him without a second thought.

 _Idiots_ , Ward told himself, but then he thought of Skye.

He pulled the trigger more quickly than usual, his face emotionless but his gut twisting. He couldn’t look when he did it this time.

“How did Hydra know you were coming?” one of the agents asked.

“Because we told them,” Garrett said smugly, and Ward raised his gun.

One shot.

The last look on their faces was surprise, and it made them look young, almost childish in death.

Like Fitz would have looked…

“You need to pull it together, kid,” Garrett said, looking at him sharply. “This isn’t the Grant Ward I know.”

 _Yes, it is_ , Ward told himself. _That’s who I am. That’s who I’ve always been, and no team on earth can change it._

“A little warning next time, sir?” Ward asked coldly, as if the unexpected gunfire from the chopper had been the only thing that upset him.

“The line was too good to pass up,” Garrett smirked.

 Ward nodded, stepping over the bodies of the fallen boys. “Which way, sir?”


	23. The Staff

_The Fridge. Lowest floor._

Ward moved mechanically, trying to push away thoughts of the dead agents and how that could have easily been someone like Fitz or Simmons or Skye, his Skye…

And he found that he could. That he was still capable of compartmentalizing. That he was still capable of locking certain thoughts away; certain memories.

“Remember Project Slingshot?” Garrett asked him, and Ward nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

“It was a myth.”

A grin spread slowly across Ward’s face as he realized what Garrett had just told him. “The 0-8-4 from Peru? The Chitauri neurolinks? It’s all here?”

Garrett smirked. “As if they would really throw away anything this valuable. The 0-8-4 was originally Hydra technology, if Coulson didn’t tell you that.”

“He told me,” Ward smirked at the memory, because in his mind, they were almost faceless again. The superior agent, the Calvary, the tech, the scientist. He had done his duty coldly that day in Peru—he had the Calvary’s back, he had covered the tech and the scientist, he had rescued the superior agent, he had even taken a bullet; a flesh wound, but still a bullet to cover the scientist and the tech. At least, he had done his duty coldly until the girl he couldn’t classify had saved his life. “Is it from the 40’s, then, sir, or a more recent Hydra upgrade?”

“It’s from the 40’s,” Garrett answered. “But people often confuse the words ‘new’ and ‘improved.’ Take that Asgardian staff, for instance…”

 _Coulson used to say that about Lola._ The thought struck him out of the blue, and Ward jerked his attention back to his SO. “Do we take it all back to HQ, then?”

“After we release the more… chaotic… members,” Garrett smirked. “Do you have the keys?”

Ward held them out, and then noticed the blood on his hands. Garrett saw it and laughed. “The guard didn’t hand them over when you asked nicely?” he mocked, and Ward tried to smile. “Hey, kid, you gotta loosen up a bit. You’re back with me now. You’re not their Agent Grant Ward. What’s gotten into you?”

“Why did you blow your cover?” Ward asked suddenly. Up until that point he hadn’t even realized that it had been bothering him that much. “You’ve kept that cover for at least a decade, and you don’t make slip-ups, especially not in front of men like Agent Coulson.”

“Because you were close to fucking yours up, Ward,” Garrett said coldly, the smile completely erased from his face. “It was time to stop playing the game and leave behind that team. They were getting to you.”

“Getting to me?” Ward scoffed, bringing the butt of his pistol down hard on the head of a S.H.I.E.L.D. guard who was faintly stirring. “No one’s getting to me!”

“You were letting Coulson get under your skin,” Garrett said sharply as they rounded the corner to find the doors to the cells. “And it wasn’t just Coulson. It was the girl. You almost blew your cover yesterday, anyway. I don’t know who gave you the orders to shoot Nash, kid, because it sure as hell wasn’t me.”

Ward looked down. He had been waiting for the moment—now that he had escaped S.H.I.E.L.D.’s punishment for that particular crime—when his mentor would bring it up. He thought of his words to Skye in that cell on the Bus; thought of the awful truth in them when he had told her “Whatever punishment comes… I deserve it.”

“You could have fucked everything up,” Garrett said, ice in his voice as he turned the key on the first cell. The men on the other side stared back, some of them shouting with joy, some of them cold and eerily silent.  

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“You could have cost us both our lives, _Agent_ Ward.”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said through clenched teeth.

“You know what?” Garrett turned to the prisoners. “This is one of my men, but he’s been responsible for putting quite a few of you behind bars here. Who would like to help Ward here see the error of his ways?”

Ward didn’t flinch, just stood straighter, stared at the prisoners.

The men stared back suspiciously.

“Come on, don’t be shy,” Garrett called sardonically, and the first man out took a shot—a fist to Ward’s mouth. The second landed a kick in his ribs, and Ward heard it crack.

He stood taller, his face expressionless as a third man landed a blow to his jaw.

 _This is who you are, Grant Ward_ , he told himself, over and over again until he couldn’t see because there was too much blood pouring down his face. _This is what you are. This is what you do, and this is what you deserve._

_These are your wages, soldier._

_This is what you were made for._

Garrett stopped them before Ward lost consciousness, and then dragged Ward to his feet. “Whose orders do you follow?”

“Yours,” Ward said firmly, blood running down his chin.

Garrett kneed him in the ribs. “ _Whose orders do you follow?_ ”

“ _Yours_!” It was almost a shout; a desperate one, and then Ward sagged against the bars of the now-empty prison, weak and relieved when Garrett released him.

“Good,” Garrett said as the prisoners dispersed and Ward was left, bloodied but not seriously injured. “On your feet, kid. We have work to do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have a treat especially for you,” Garrett moved down the hall, and Ward followed at his heels, forcing down the pain in his ribs.

“Sir?”

“I think you’ve played with this one before,” Garrett said. “It’s a lot of power, Ward. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said emphatically.

Because he was ready. Ready to feel nothing again. Ready to have control; to be controlled. Ready to eliminate variables.

“Put these on,” Garrett tossed him a pair of gloves.  

“Sir?”

Garrett led him into a long room full of sealed crates with S.H.I.E.L.D. logos on them. “Welcome to Project Slingshot.” He pulled out his handgun and shot the lock on a crate on the lowest shelf. When he yanked the lid open, Ward felt as if he had just taken a bullet to the gut.

It was the Berserker staff.

It was rage. It was fear. It was weakness.

It was memories of Skye, offering him a drink and a shoulder to lean on…

“If you wear the gloves, it taps into the strength that comes with rage,” Garrett said, placing the staff into his hands. “But it can’t incapacitate you with the memories, and god knows that’s your biggest weakness.”

Ward crouched, holding the staff in his hands, and he felt the jolt of power rush through his body. But this time, there was nothing.

No memory of little brothers and ropes not thrown. No memories of girls with dark eyes nearly bleeding to death before his eyes.

Nothing but a pure white empty rage that drove away everything else.


	24. Follower

By the time they reached base, Garrett was telling stories again, and this time, Ward listened. The Berserker staff was still there at the back of his mind, giving him the relief he needed.

_I feel nothing. Nothing._

His mentor was showing off in front of Raina, the girl with the flower dresses and dark eyes that were nothing like Skye’s, and Ward welcomed it all.

This was what he had wanted, needed, for those past few months. With the team, it had been constant danger, constant variables; constant vigilance to make sure no one cracked his cover.

“When Ward was a rookie, we did this night drop off of Taiwan under heavy gunfire from the Chinese government and from some rebel terrorist cell,” Garrett said, that coarse, leisurely grin resting smugly on his face. “And Ward here had never done a night drop before. He made it through alright, though, didn’t you, kid?”

“I always do, sir” Ward said, managing a grin, but he caught Raina’s sharp, knowing glance, and he thought of Skye suddenly.

How she had always looked at him as if she knew the demons that lurked just beneath his skin; how she had seemed to see so much of his filthy soul without flinching or giving up on him.

“This kid always had the potential for greatness,” Garrett said, and Ward stood up straighter, feeling a rush of pride at his mentor’s praise. “Combat and espionage don’t always go hand in hand, but this kid was so good that he had three separate intelligence agencies trying to recruit him before he turned fifteen.”

“And why did you choose the _Clairvoyant_ , Agent Ward?” Raina asked, twisting the word “Clairvoyant” bitterly, and Garret smirked.

“You mean Hydra?”

“I mean how did Agent Garrett convince you to choose him, Ward? You don’t seem easily swayed.”

“I’m not.”

 “Then how?”

“I was fourteen and I was lost. I needed someone to help me hone the skills I already had,” Ward said fiercely, looking across the room at Garrett. “And I figured that if this was all I could be, I might as well choose the winning side.”

Raina’s lips twitched slightly, and then she smiled, a terrifying, slippery smile as if she could see every base thing in him. “Oh, Agent Ward,” she said. “Is that why you were terrified to be part of a team?”

“I haven’t been terrified of anything since Garrett rescued me,” Ward said staunchly, but Raina shook her head.

“You’re terrified every day of your life,” she insisted, and Garrett looked up sharply as if intrigued by her statement. “But you’ve never been as terrified of anything as you have of that girl. And Coulson.”

Ward looked at her, confused, and then exchanged a glance with Garrett, who was watching them both intently. “They’ve never been threats,” he said, squinting down at her as she turned back to work on the hard drive.  “The only threat to me on that team was the Calvary. And I was never scared of her.”

“Of course they haven’t,” she said. “And if anything in your life isn’t a threat to neutralize or an order to follow, you have no idea what to do with it. Face it, Agent Ward. They were variables, and you’re terrified of variables.”


	25. Loyalty

The rest of the day passed in a blur—strategizing their next move. More of Garrett’s stories. Too much of Raina’s knowing looks.

And then Garrett dragged Ward out of the Berserker staff’s grip when he mentioned the team. Mentioned Skye. Mentioned Ward’s stint as a member of the team.

“It doesn’t come without complications,” Ward said coldly.

“Oh come on, you’re not still mad about that, are you?”

“Shooting Skye was never part of the plan!” Ward snapped, slamming his hands down on the table. Was this Berserker rage, or was it just the memories? Because as long as he lived, Ward would never forget the image of Skye lying on the bare stone floor, bleeding out in front of him.

“You should’ve told me,” Garrett said, annoyed. “How was I supposed to know you had a thing for the girl?”

“You said going in you didn’t want bloodshed,” Ward argued. “The mission was supposed to be about intel, not kill orders.”

“Would it have been easier if I’d issued the kill order when she first joined the team?”

“Of course it would have been easier,” Ward snarled. “But you _didn’t_. So don’t touch her again.”

“Is that why you had her shot?” Raina asked Garrett coolly, and it infuriated Ward to hear her talking about Skye so casually.

He opened his mouth, but Garrett cut him off.

“I needed Coulson’s Jesus juice,” Garrett said. “And Coulson goes to great lengths for the people he cares about.”

“Why not have Ward shot, then, if it was not about killing him and just about the drug? It would give you more of an excuse to be on that plane. In fact, it would have given you the _perfect_ cover to be on the plane,” Raina said. “It would make sense that a former SO would go to those lengths for an agent.”  

Ward cocked his head at Raina in confusion. “But the team… they care about Skye. She’s the kind that people go to any lengths to save, because… because that’s who she is. She’s worth it. And because the only one who would even think of going to those lengths to save _me_ is John Garrett.”

Garrett nodded. “No one really cares about the specialists,” he said nonchalantly, and Ward nodded in agreement. “But Coulson is a sucker for redemption stories,” Garrett continued, laughing sardonically. “And Skye was all that and more for him. She was the logical choice.”

_I wish it had been me. I wish I had been the kill order._

_Even if the team wouldn’t have tried to save me…_

“You really don’t think Coulson cares?” Raina asked, her dark eyes boring into Ward’s as she stared at him in disbelief. “I spent some time with him. He would have laid down his life for you—for any of you. You really don’t think he would see you as someone worth saving?”

“I was another project,” Ward said coldly, shutting out the memories. “When it comes down to it, projects aren’t worth saving, either.”

 _Who are you trying to convince, Ward? Yourself?_ The thought nagged at the back of his mind, and Ward tried to shrug it off; tried to shrug off all his memories of Coulson.

_Coulson, making sure he rested after the day in Peru where he had nearly lost his team the first time._

_Coulson, making sure he was alright after the Berserker staff had brought him to the edge of hell._

_Coulson, the only one to acknowledge how awful it had been to wake up from Lorelei’s spell._

_Coulson, who had pulled him to the side after Garrett revealed himself; tried to break the news gently; tried to save him…_

_Always trying to save him._

“Coulson doesn’t have projects,” Raina said firmly, and Ward looked up at Garrett, who was watching him uncertainly. “Coulson has people who he would die for. Who he would do anything to rescue. I wouldn’t take that lightly if I were you, Agent Ward.”

“Well, understand this, _Flowers_ ,” Ward said. “Someone else has already taken a bullet for me. Someone has already rescued me. And nothing in the world matters more than that.”


	26. Ultimatum

“Your hacker encrypted the hard drive so that if anyone but her tries to access it, it destroys the files on the drive,” Raina informed them the next morning.

“Well, you know what that means,” Garrett said, and Ward nodded. “Are you ready for this?”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said, swallowing hard and trying to hide the flush of pride that he had felt when he heard about Skye’s encryption. “I know how important this is. I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“Look, I understand what the girl means to you,” Garrett said. “And I understand why you want to keep your cover, so if you can do that and get out with the password, go for it. But if you can’t”—he drilled Ward with a look so intense it was all he could do to keep from looking away—“then you cross off the team and let me deal with the girl myself.”

Ward nodded unflinchingly, determined not to betray how the words had impacted him.

_You can’t them all, Ward. You never could._

“I’ll do what needs to be done, sir,” Ward said, and then he blocks out all noise, because if he listens too closely, he can still hear a boy at the bottom of a well, begging for a rope he is still unable to throw...


	27. The Reason

“He’s using you.”

Raina’s soft-spoken words whipped Ward around as if they were a physical force. He was about to board the plane that would take him to Fury’s secret base, where his team would be waiting.

“What did you say?” Ward hissed, stepping closer to her so that he towered above her.

“Garrett,” Raina said, looking unconcerned. “He’s used all of us, but nobody more than you.”

“He _saved_ me,” Ward said staunchly. “I owe him everything.”

“He took a bullet for you?” Raina asked, tipping her head to the side slightly as she looked up at him critically. “Or he stopped you from putting a bullet in yourself.”

“Both,” Ward said curtly.

A few of Garrett’s mean were milling about, prepping the plane, and Raina dismissed them with a wave of her hand. “How did it happen?” she asked, her voice soft and calm, but dripping with bitterness. “And how did he convince you that what he was doing was called saving?”

“Manhattan. September. I was fourteen, my brother had just died, and I had not… reacted well. Three intelligence agencies came knocking, but it was only Garrett who cared,” Ward told her briefly, his voice distant with the memories. “Prague. January. It was supposed to a routine mission, but half of the building was rigged with explosives. I was barely conscious. Couldn’t walk. He carried me out through the fire, and when we made it to the exit, the gunfire started. He covered me with his body. And then he took a bullet to the gut.”

Raina’s lips curled slightly. “So you owe him. But who’s to say that he didn’t have the place rigged himself? You jumped out of a plane to gain someone’s loyalty.”

Rage flooded Ward, and he grabbed her shoulder roughly. “No way in _hell_ ,” he snarled, and when she just smiled placidly, he shoved her backwards.

“But how can you know for sure, _Agent_ Ward?” she asked smugly, but her dark eyes were hard and fierce. “How do you know he’s not the one playing you?”

Ward released her, his breath coming hard and fast. “You’ve seen the metal plate he wears?” he said, his voice still hoarse with contained rage. “It saved his life when he took a bullet for me, but it was only ever a temporary solution. And now it’s killing him.”

Raina’s eyes lit with understanding, and she drew back from him. “So he saved you, and now he’s paying for it with his life?”

Ward felt a muscle jerk in his face, but otherwise he concealed the way the words twisted with shame in his gut. “I’ll make sure it’s a price he doesn’t have to pay,” Ward said quietly, and then he steeled himself as he had always done in the past.

Steeled himself to see his team, so that when he saw their faces, he wouldn’t feel, wouldn’t think, wouldn’t know anything except for orders and whatever means became necessary to carry them out…


	28. Haven

When the scope pushed up from the snow and asked Ward to identify himself, he was fearful for a fraction of a second that his team already knew; that this was a trap and they had planned it this way all along.

But Ward’s identity was stamped in the bruises on his ribs; his cover written in the scars on his face, and it was the memory of Garrett’s fists erasing everything else that carried him as he lifted his chin and said staunchly, “Grant Ward, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

The door slid open, and Ward breathed a sigh of relief.

Skye was waiting for him, and Ward caught his breath when he saw her.

She was smiling up at him—of course it would be Skye who could still smile, even after her world had come crashing down around her ears over the past few days.

“You okay?” she asked, concern washing away the elation on her face. “Hey,” she grabbed his bag from his shoulders. “Simmons should take a look at you. Maybe you should rest”—

“Not part of the job description,” he said, smiling slightly as he remembered the last time he had told her that; just after Peru, and she had brought Coulson to his bunk to order him to get some rest. “Besides, it’s just a scratch. And maybe a broken rib or two.”

“You. Me. Simmons,” Skye said, and then clapped her hand over her mouth. “That was _not_ an invitation to have a threesome, Robot, no matter how it sounded.”

Ward laughed aloud, and then winced.

“Your ribs?”

He nodded, and her eyes softened.

“Well, Agent-it’s-just-a-scratch Ward, you’re coming with me, and _no_ , you sure as hell are not going to carry this bag any farther.” She rolled her eyes, and then Fitz rounded the corner.

“Another nickname, Agent Ward?” Fitz grinned, and Ward smiled slightly at the younger agent. “Oh my god,” Fitz’s face dropped as he caught sight of Ward’s battered face. “Who did this to you?”

Ward told them his story when they were all gathered in the med room and Simmons cleaned the cuts on his face. Fitz was fussing with bandages and getting in Simmons’ way, and Coulson was looking at him with such sadness that Ward had to look away.

When Simmons and Trip had left with Fitz following at their heels, and May and Koenig had disappeared to the hangar to discuss the future of their plane, Coulson pulled him aside. Skye lingered at the door, holding her laptop, but gave them a moment.

“Are you alright, Ward?” Coulson asked, and Ward looked away.

_Orders, Ward. You have orders._

_And they do not come from Phil Coulson._

“Fine,” Ward said curtly.

“I’m sorry you had to make the hard call,” Coulson said, looking straight at Ward as if he could see through every pretense Ward was trying to keep up. “I know he was you SO, and no matter what he did, that still means nothing.”

“It means nothing,” Ward said, wincing a little as his folded arms touched his ribs. “That’s part of the job description, sir.”

“Not on this team it’s not,” Coulson said. “So I know what he meant to you, Agent Ward.”

Ward swallowed hard, looking away towards Skye.

“If you need a few days”—

“We shouldn’t split up the team, sir,” Ward said, placing a hand on his aching ribs as he felt a surge of hope. If Coulson took off with most of the team, he wouldn’t have to do it.

He wouldn’t have to cross anyone off.

“I want you to stay here and rest. Triplett will be flying the plane, and Fitzsimmons will be coming with me, because it’s science we need to stop Blackout, not specialists.”

_Blackout had been one of the prisoners to land his fist in Ward’s face…_

“Skye will be staying behind to gather intel on the prisoners who escaped from the Fridge,” Coulson continued, and Ward nodded, trying to focus.

“And May?”

“She’ll be staying, too,” Coulson said, and Ward felt hopelessness engulf him again.

There was no way Melinda May would let Skye go without a fight, and Ward doubted himself; doubted if he could kill again, even for Garrett.

_You are so weak, Ward. You have always been weak._

_You couldn’t throw that rope, so many years ago._

_And now you can’t even bring yourself to cross one agent out for the sake of the man who saved you…_

“And Agent Ward?” Coulson’s voice dragged him out of his thoughts.

“Yes, sir?”

“Take care of yourself. We need you.”

Ward hesitated, then nodded stiffly, ignoring the way his throat had just clenched. _Pull it together,_ he told himself. _This isn’t part of your orders._

Coulson dismissed him, and Skye joined them, carrying her tablet. She linked her arm through Ward’s, and Ward tried to smile down at her.

“Come on,” she said. “I have to work, and you have to get better, so you’re keeping me company. And those are orders, Agent.”

“Those are the kind of orders I like best,” Ward said, grinning down at her. Then he added as an afterthought, “Are you going to be working on the hard drive?”

“No, the encryption is location-based, so at some point we’ll need to get there, but I have to work on locating the escaped prisoners,” Skye told him, dragging him into the main hub of the compound and gesturing towards the one couch that wasn’t cluttered with her reports. “There. Drink. Rest. Talk to me.”

“This wasn’t how I imagined us having that drink,” Ward groaned as he reclined on the couch, his ribs aching.

Skye looked up in concern. “Maybe I should look for painkillers or something”—

“No, no, it’s just a scratch,” he repeated, shaking his head as if it were nothing. “I’m used to it.”

“I figured,” she said softly, her dark eyes focused on him intently. “I wish you weren’t.”

Ward leaned away from her slightly, uncomfortable. She didn’t know—couldn’t know—about his years with Garrett.

No one knew.

But her eyes were dark, as if they knew; as if they saw every inch of his past.

“It’s nothing,” he said, but his words sounded weak even to him, and Skye shook her head, turning back to her laptop.

“You don’t have to do that,” she said, not looking at him. “The pretending.”

_Oh, Skye. If only you knew._

“I’m not pretending anything,” he said irritably. “It’s not the first time I’ve had broken ribs. You know, I think I really do need some rest. I’m going to find my bunk.”

Ward rose, too quickly, and he felt a wave of dizziness hit him. Apparently the gashes on his head were affecting him more than he thought. He swayed just slightly, losing his vision for a moment, and grabbed onto the back of the couch.

In a second someone’s arm was around him, supporting him, and when his vision cleared, he saw Skye holding him up, concern scrawled across her face.

“Alright, Agent I-do-it-on-my-own Ward, you’re going to let me help you, and that’s final.”

“That’s another nickname, Agent Ward,” Fitz entered the room, and he didn’t seem surprised to see Skye holding Ward up. “There, Simmons, I told you,” he called over his shoulder to the scientist, who entered the room behind him. “He tried to be ‘I’m-Agent-Ward-and-I-take-a-beating-every-day.’ And I told you Skye would win.” Fitz moved to Ward’s other side to take his arm.

Ward laughed and then winced.

“Fitz,” Simmons scolded. “Look what you’ve done. Stop making the poor man laugh.”

Fitz made a face at her, and then scowled at Triplett, who had entered at Jemma’s heels. “Well, I’m helping Ward get to his bunk, so at least I’m _helping_ him, Jemma. A lot of good you’ve done today, poking around and then following Agent Triplett around here all day.”

Simmons blushed furiously. “ _I_ already took a look at Agent Ward, Fitz, and since, of the two of us, _I’m_ the one with knowledge of the medical”—

“Oh, good God,” Ward growled, shifting his weight onto Skye’s shoulder. “Can I just go to bed, please?”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Coulson entered, carrying a file that Ward recognized as Blackout’s. “Fitz, get him to his bunk, and then you and Simmons and I are off. Agent Triplett, start prepping the plane, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Triplett withdrew.

Skye and Fitz started moving forward, still half carrying Ward, who, amidst his shame at being as weak as he was, could only be grateful.

When Fitz had said his goodbyes, Skye sat down on Ward’s bunk next to him and took his hand in his hers. He thought at first that she would speak—ask him questions, maybe, or just banter in her lighthearted way—and he almost dreaded it. Dreaded his own weakness.

But she didn’t speak, not once, just sat beside him and massaged his hand between hers gently, silent as he drifted off to sleep. And in the safety of this tiny underground bunker, hidden from the war that was raging in the outside world, it was almost easy to forget that there was any other world but this; this world where he could be Grant Ward, Agent of SHIELD, and fall asleep holding Skye’s hand in his.  


	29. Darkness

Ward tried not to remember the feel of Skye’s hand in his when he loaded his gun and strapped it to his back, when he entered the plane hangar behind Melinda May, his hand on the trigger.

 _What needs to be done_ , Ward told himself. He forced himself to think of Garrett; the awe he had felt for the man when he had first started training him, the overwhelming gratitude when he knew what Garrett had done for him, the care and respect he had felt for him for over ten years. _For him._

And then he saw the travel bag May carried.

“You’re leaving?” he blurted, feeling relief wash over him in a flood. “What am I supposed to tell Coulson?”*

“Whatever you want to tell him,” she said tightly. “He won’t hear it.”

“I get why you did it,” he said suddenly. “You get orders, you don’t question them. No matter the price.”

_I wasn’t going to question orders, just now, and it would have been a high, high price. I don’t know if I could have faced that…_

“This price was too,” May said sharply, her words echoing his thoughts. “I lost him.”

She turned and walked away, out into the white world where it was already beginning to snow again.

Ward leaned back against the doorframe, deep in thought. _If I hesitated to cross off Melinda May, how the hell am I going to be able to do this?_

A distant memory blindsided him—the first time he had asked Garrett to hit him.

_“You have to know your cover, breathe your cover. You could have gotten us all killed.”_

_“I’m sorry, sir.”_

_“You damn well better be.”_

_“I did this. I fucked this up. I endangered you.”_

_“Damn right you did!”_

_“So hit me. Hit me!”_

_Ward had been relieved that, finally, he could find a way to atone for all he had done. Relieved that the bruises had the power to hide the blood on his hands. Relieved that, finally, he was prepared to bleed his cover._

_So that’s how you do it today_ , Ward could almost hear Garrett’s voice. _Know your cover so well that you bleed it._

 _Yes, sir,_ Ward straightened his shoulders and turned to face what lay ahead of him. _I do what needs to be done._

Even if that meant things that would haunt him.

Even if that meant she hated him.

Skye hacked the NSA, something he hadn’t foreseen—she had surprised him again; why did she always do that?—and god help him, he knew he couldn’t let anyone see that footage. _He_ didn’t want to see that footage ever again; didn’t want to see the boy guards who looked like Fitz, didn’t want to see the others, brave and staunch and outnumbered, didn’t want to see himself, standing silently while the prisoners took out their rage on his battered body.

It had been easy to kill Agent Koenig.

Too easy.

He hadn’t had to think. It was one compartment of his mind, sealed off.

Hands, rope, neck.

He hid the body in the storage closet, and placed a penny above the door so he could gauge if the room had been touched.

And when he stepped back, numb and dead and cold, Ward noticed his hands were shaking. And there was blood—there was blood on his fingers and under his nails and it was the kind of blood that stained and never came out—and later, after he had scrubbed and scraped while his own pathetic, salty tears ran over his hands and he could not stop them, his hands still felt filthy.

They felt filthier still when Skye grabbed his hands and then kissed him.

She told him he was a good man, and he could see nothing but blood, blood, blood, all of it necessary, all of it unavoidable, all of it permanently embedded in who he was, because how can he stop any of this? How can he give up on John Garrett, who he owes his life to, who he cares about more than his own life?

But then again, how can he bear this? How can he bear the blood on his hands and the filth embedded in his bones and the awful, cold brutality that was part of his entire soul for so long—how can he bear it all when she looks at him with those fierce, loving dark eyes and calls him good? 


	30. Revelation

Skye led him to a café in LA, and Ward watched her carefully.

For half a minute back at the Providence base, he had almost thought she had guessed, but she had shaken her head and then said it was the impulsive kiss that had scared her off.

“They have some damn good pie here,” Skye told him brightly as he followed her down the sidewalk towards the door to the café. “And it’s been so long since I’ve eaten at a restaurant.”

Ward smiled slightly, but looked down at her quizzically. “How long do you think this will take?”

“An hour, maybe,” Skye shrugged. “Maybe more.”

Ward winced internally. He was already four hours past Garrett’s deadline, and he knew that by this point, Garrett was probably already coming for him.

But he couldn’t turn Skye over to them.

He couldn’t.

He may have blood on his hands; blood that was impossible to wash out; but he couldn’t live if he had hers on his hands, too.

“You okay?” she asked, and Ward couldn’t look at her.

“Yea, fine,” he said, but he was back in the compound, feverishly strangling Koenig, his cord tightening around the man’s throat, and there was blood on his knuckles, under his fingernails, blood everywhere.

So much blood…

“Because, you know, I get it,” she said, and he heard a fierceness in her tone that he didn’t recognize. “I’m sure it’s been hard for you since you find out about Garrett. How he played you for so long. How he pretended to care so much and then turned and stabbed you in the back.”

Ward looked at her sharply, but she was busy typing on her laptop. _Oh, Skye. I wish I could tell you. I wish you could know and still look at me like I’m not a monster…_

It was almost an hour later when Ward started getting nervous. Skye was asking a little nervous, but otherwise, nothing out of the ordinary, but there were three police officers who had been sitting at the counter for the past half hour and they had been looking over at him continually.

“Skye, how much time do you have left?” he asked, forcing his voice not to shake.

“About half an hour,” she said leisurely, and Ward groaned inwardly.

Garrett was going to send his super soldier swooping in to take her in no time, and Ward didn’t know if he would be strong enough to stop him.

“Can you make it any quicker?”

“I thought you were the one who told me earlier to relax,” she said, grinning up at him, and Ward couldn’t help but grin back, captivated as always by her smile.

 _She called me good_ , the thought twisted in his gut like a knife. _She called me good, and I am about to betray her._

Skye sat up straighter suddenly. “Will you relax?”

“The cops keep looking at us.”

“They’re just checking out the waitress,” Skye said nonchalantly. “We’re fine. They don’t know you’re pretending to be someone you’re not.”

_Someone you’re not…_

Ward rubbed his hand over his eyes, forcing himself not to let the words get to him. “And who am I pretending to be?”

“My impatient boyfriend,” she said, and Ward nearly grinned in surprise.

“I like that cover,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. _And I wish to God it was the truth, Skye. If only you knew…_

“What’s the longest you’ve been undercover? Like, deep undercover?” she asked suddenly, and Ward was almost thrown for a second.

But he had been trained by Garrett even for this question.

_They ask about deep cover, you tell them Warsaw, SHIELD recruits, protocol, deep cover 101._

_Fist to the gut, ribs cracking._ “Sixteen months.” _And where, you piece of shit? Where were you? Knuckles against jaw._ “Warsaw, in the embassy. Standard SHIELD recruit placement after the academy.” _Make me believe it, kid. A fist to his face, imprinting the instructions._

“It’s gotta be so hard. Living a double life like that,” she said, and Ward bit his lip and turned away. “Getting close to people, and then turning on them.” Her voice was colder than usual, and Ward looked up at her, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t know how Garrett did it,” she continued.

“Garrett?” he asked feebly, chilled to the bone at her cold voice.

“All those years when he pretended to care about you. When he acted like you meant something to him. And then you realized you had been dispensable all along.”

 _Am I?_ Ward felt the thought jolt through his body. _Am I dispensable?_

“It wasn’t easy to accept,” Ward said carefully, his words measured. “But I got past it. It’s what I do. I survive, Skye,” he said wearily, setting down his coffee mug.

“You got past it?” she laughed, and there was a hard note in her voice. “You mean because you took care of it and put a bullet through his head. But if you had one more moment, Ward, before you shot him, what would you say?” her voice rose slightly, and her dark eyes were fierce and hard and unforgiving when she looked at him. “Would you tell him he’s disgusting? A disgusting, backstabbing traitor? Would you tell him to rot in hell?”

Ward stared at her, ashamed to feel tears pricking the back of his eyes. He hadn’t cried—hadn’t even been close to crying—in years. He swallowed and looked into her eyes. “Skye. What are you doing?”

“What am I doing, Agent Ward?” Skye asked, laughing harshly. “I’m trying to have an honest conversation. _For once_.”

Ward shook his head in disbelief, and then straightened as he saw two of the police officers stop and speak with a couple at a table nearby. “We need to go,” he said sharply. “They’re clearing people out. Our cover’s gone.”

“No,” she said calmly, turning her laptop so the screen faced him. “I tipped them off.”

Plastered across her screen was his picture, in a “wanted fugitive” announcement, and Ward felt it sink into his gut.

_She knew. How long had she knew? Had she found out after that first kiss at Providence?_

_And what had she said?_

_Disgusting. Backstabbing traitor. Rot in hell…_

“Skye,” he said softly, but the word came out mangled and broken. _Yes, Ward._

_You are disgusting._

_You always have been._

_Look what you’ve done to her._

But Skye, always resilient, always strong, was staring at him coldly. Unforgivingly. As always, she was surprising him. Her face was hard, but he saw what it cost her—saw it in her eyes and hated himself even more as her lips turned up slightly into a bitter smile.

“Hail hydra,” she said sardonically, and with those words Ward felt the last shred of his world crumble beneath him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue based directly on or taken from Agents of SHIELD episode 20, including the following lines:   
> “My impatient boyfriend,” “I like that cover,” “I’m trying to have an honest conversation. For once," and this one loosely: “Would you tell him he’s disgusting? A disgusting, backstabbing traitor? Would you tell him to rot in hell?"  
> All characters belong to Marvel.


	31. Orders

“You don’t understand,” Ward snarled. “It wasn’t like that. I had orders. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Everyone has a choice,” Skye said, shaking her head, angry tears welling in her eyes. “And you made the choice to be a freaking Nazi.”

Ward turned away sharply, slamming his fist against the wall of the bus. “You can’t win this, Skye,” he snapped. “If you’re not going to give me answers, you’ll give them to him. And I don’t want to have to do that.”

“As if you give a shit,” she said bitterly, scrambling away from him as he took a step towards her.

“Skye”—                                           

“You son of a bitch,” she snarled suddenly, lashing out suddenly, first with a fist to his gut and then to his jaw.

“Skye”—he reached out a hand to stop her, and then decided against it.

It was better for her to take out that anger on him—god knows he deserved it—and maybe then, maybe if she made enough mark with her fists, she would listen and try to understand.

He grabbed her wrist, and she jerked, almost throwing him off balance, before landing another solid punch to his jaw. Ward felt a sudden unexpected surge of pride. He had taught her that move…

He grabbed her wrists finally.

“Stop,” he said quietly. “This isn’t a fight you can win.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to stop fighting,” she hissed. “Not ever. You _traitor_.”

She lashed out again, and this time he caught her hands and then handcuffed to the stair railing. “Stop,” he hissed. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” she said coldly. “You’re a liar and a traitor and a _murderer_. Koenig? Hand? How many more, Ward?”

Ward flinched and looked away. “I did what I had to do.”

Skye pulled hard on her handcuffs, and he stepped back just out of her reach.

“I didn’t have a choice, Skye. I had orders.”

“You didn’t have a _choice_?” she snarled, and then she looked straight at him and spit in his face.

He wiped the spit off his face with the back of his sleeve. He couldn’t look at her.

“Everyone has a choice, Ward, and you _chose_ to be a murderer. You _chose_ to have me shot”—

Ward jerked upright. “You think that was _me_? You think I would do that to you?”

“I don’t know, Ward,” Skye said sardonically. “I found Koenig’s body in a fucking storage closet. I see Mike Peterson’s body covered in burns. Are you telling me you didn’t want to shoot me? Because that’s going to be pretty damn hard to believe.”

“It wasn’t part of the plan,” he said angrily. “The team was supposed to be safe. _You_ were supposed to be safe.”

“Oh, _I_ matter suddenly?” she scoffed, her voice cold as ice. “The Clairvoyant—Hydra—they had innocent people _murdered_ , they tried to take out millions of people, and you think it’s all okay? That the world can go to shit but you can bargain for the live of one woman? You disgust me.”

“Skye”—

Ward felt his throat clench with emotion.

_Monster. Disgusting monster._

_Who had been the first person to call him a monster?_

_It was his mother, probably. His father would have said worse. She’d been drunk. His father hadn’t been, not that it changed matters much…_

_It didn’t matter now._

_She hated him, just as Garrett had said._

_What had Garrett told him?_

_They will always walk away when they see who you really are. Always._

He couldn’t blame her, but _dear god_ he wanted her to know that it hadn’t all been a lie.

“Skye, I know—I know that you hate what I’ve done.”

“No, bastard,” she snarled, her eyes welling with tears. “I hate _you_.”

“I know,” he said. “But, Skye, let me explain”—

“Oh, you’re going to explain away the blood on your hands”—

“I had orders,” he said sharply. “I had orders and”—

“Yea,” Skye said, yanking her shirt up to reveal two barely-healed scars on her abdomen. “So did Ian Quinn.”


	32. Heartbeat

“Garrett’s finished waiting,” Deathlok said coldly.

Skye lowered her shirt, but the image of her scars was seared onto Ward’s memory.

“Skye,” he said softly. “Tell me where it is. _Please_.”

_Because I’ll do what needs to be done, Skye. And I don’t want to have to._

“Mike,” she said pleadingly, and she wasn’t looking at Ward anymore. “Mike, this isn’t you.”

Of course Skye would look at Deathlok and still see Mike Peterson. Of course she would.

Ward closed his eyes briefly, leaning against the wall of the plane as he listened to her begging Mike, reminding him of his son, of his life, of the human he had been.

_I was never human._

“You won’t hurt me,” Skye said firmly, and when Ward looked at her, the faith in her eyes devastated him.

“Damnit Skye,” Ward snapped, and then Deathlok turned to him.

“She’s right,” Deathlok said. “I won’t hurt her.”

Ward realized half a second too late what he meant.

Realized it as he saw Deathlok’s weapon discharge.

Pain tore through the left side of his body, and he was falling—

falling—

falling—

He could still see Skye’s face, her eyes, dark and angry and devastated all at the same time.

_Is this what dying feels like?_

Someone cried out in pain, and Ward realized it was him.

“I stopped his heart,” Deathlok said coldly.

“His heart,” Skye echoed wildly, trying to twist out of her handcuffs to reach him. “Ward”—

“He’s having a heart attack.”

And then another sharp pain ripped through his body.

He tried to scream—tried to call out to her—tried to say everything he had been unable to say for so long—tried to tell her he was sorry, so, so sorry—

“ _Skye_ ,” he moaned.  

And then everything went dark.


	33. Bring Him Back

_“Bring him back!”_

Maybe it was Ward’s desperate imagination playing tricks on him, but somewhere in the darkness of his mind he heard Skye shout the words, and a second later he woke, his body jerking uncontrollably as his heart began to work again.

He rolled onto his back, exhausted, his lungs shuddering for breath.

“Skye,” he whispered.

_Bring him back._

Deathlok dragged her over to her laptop, snarling something about “no tricks,” and then he returned to help Ward to his feet.

“Don’t touch me,” Ward hissed. “You son of a bitch.”

“I get my orders from the same place you do,” Deathlok said coolly, using his weapon to send a jolt of adrenaline to Ward’s heart, causing him to stand up straighter. “Now get the plane off the ground.”

Ward staggered towards the cockpit, and he felt Skye’s gaze on him as he went.

His hands were shaking, he realized, and he grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the cabinet in the main hub of the plane. He had just downed a gulp straight from the bottle when Deathlok snatched the bottle from him.

“Just fly the damn plane.”

Ward stormed out of the room, slamming the cockpit door shut behind him. Once he was inside, prepping the plane, he turned on his earpiece.

“What is it, kid?” Garrett’s familiar voice growled. “I’m busy.”

Was it relief or anger he felt flooding through his body? Whatever it was, Ward threw caution to the wind.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Ward shouted into his earpiece. “Am I fucking dispensable to you?”

Garrett went silent.

Dangerously silent.

“You interrupt me during an important mission because you got a little skittish, Ward?” Garrett said, and Ward felt as if the disgust in his mentor’s voice was seeping into his bones. “Did you really think she wouldn’t save you?”

_Not, ‘did you really think I would kill you?’ but ‘did you really think she wouldn’t save you?’ Does that mean you would kill me without hesitation if that’s what it takes?_

_Though it’s not as if I deserve anything else…_

“No,” Ward said quietly. “I didn’t think she would.”

Garrett laughed loudly on the other end, and Ward winced at the sound. “So you thought you were dying?” he mocked. “You thought I was going to let that happen to you?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes sir, I did.”

“I’ve always stood by you. And I’ve always taken care of you,” Garrett said fiercely. “So it’s time you started believing that, Ward.”  

Ward let out his breath, almost feeling relieved. “Yes, sir.”

“And Ward?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t doubt me again.”

The line disconnected, and Ward busied himself getting the plane ready. It was Garrett—it was always Garrett—who didn’t walk away, no matter how ugly the truth was. No matter how bad things got.

But still, _still_ Ward was weak and hating himself, because it was Skye’s words and not Garrett’s that clung to his mind so fiercely.

 _Bring him back_ , she had shouted. _Bring him back._

And Ward almost began to wish that was possible.


	34. A Debt Owed

“Stand down.”

The words were spoken coldly, and Ward knew the woman he was facing would have no mercy on him.

Coulson, maybe, would have wanted to give him a chance, but Maria Hill? She was a lioness.

“Maria Hill,” he said sharply, his voice a practiced mask of arrogant indifference. “I had hoped you went down with the Triskellion.”

“And I had hoped you weren’t a duplicitous low-life, but here we are,” she responded, and he could almost see the sneer on her face. “Hand over Skye.”

“Not an option.”

“We’ll blow your plane where it stands,” she said emotionlessly, but Ward knew her game. She might be a hardass—might have no mercy for men like him—but she was fiercely loyal, and there was no way a plane carrying Skye would be harmed at Hill’s command.

“Coulson won’t let that happen,” Ward said confidently. “And neither will you. Not while Skye is on board.”

“Coulson tells me you care about the girl,” Hill said unexpectedly, and Ward felt anger surge through him.

Coulson knew nothing about him now except for the betrayal, so why would he assume that what Ward had really cared for Skye?

The pompous bastard.

Except that he was right, of course.

It was an annoying habit of Coulson’s.

“Coulson has no idea,” Ward said flatly. “We’re leaving, and if you care about seeing Skye alive again—which I know you do—you won’t follow us.”

“If this is about Garrett,” Hill said, surprising him again. “You don’t owe him anything, Ward.”

Ward opened his mouth, but another familiar voice interrupted his.

“No, you do owe him.” It was Triplett, who had been Garrett’s specialist before Hydra had been activated. Garrett had been planning to scratch him off, because as a Howling Commando legacy, it would have been ridiculous to even consider asking him to join Hydra. “You feel like you owe him, Ward, and I get it, but you don’t owe him this much. And you belong to this team more.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Ward said coldly, trying to shrug the words off. He ended the communication.

As the plane lifted off, Ward leaned back in his seat.

Goddamn, he’d had enough for one day. Maybe Deathlok would let him have the whiskey back now that they were in the air.

“Set it on autopilot,” Deathlok interrupted his thoughts. “And get in here. I need you to oversee the hack.”

_Skye._

“Did you hurt her?”

“No,” Deathlok said, but he was smirking, and Ward grabbed him by his shoulder and drove him backwards against the wall, not caring that Deathlok had Centipede serum in his veins and could stop his heart in an instant.

“You hurt her,” Ward hissed through clenched teeth. “And I will kill you with my bare hands.”

The soldier was still smirking. “You’re compromised,” he said mockingly. “She compromised you so badly I don’t even have to tell you how fucked you are.”

“Fuck off,” Ward snapped, pushing through the door.

Skye was on the other side, busy on her laptop.

She didn’t look up when he entered.

“Skye,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

“Skye,” he tried again. “Why”—

“Don’t,” she said sharply. “I saved you because I’m not a murderer. Like you.”

“I”—

“If it had been me instead, what would you have done, Ward?” she asked harshly, looking up at him finally. “If you were protecting Garrett’s secret and they threatened _my_ life, what would you have done?”

Ward knew Deathlok was in the other room, waiting to report to Garrett on his answer, so he squared his shoulders and spoke the words that would damn him. “I would have let you die,” he said, and the words tasted like ash on his tongue.

Skye didn’t look surprised, and it tore at him. “I figured,” she said. “There.” She hit one last key on her laptop and then stood. “It’s ready. You can shoot me now, Agent Ward. Or would you rather hire someone else to do that for you?”

_I wouldn’t._

_Not ever._

_If it was up to me to save your life, I would kill anyone who stood in the way, and then, just to make sure, I would put a bullet through my brain, too, just to be safe._

_That’s your answer, Skye._

_That’s what I would say if I had a choice…_

But Ward said nothing, and Deathlok entered the room and grabbed Skye’s arm, leading her away to the cell.

After he had shot Nash, Skye had come to his cell and brought him a water bottle; sat with him and talked until the guilt had ebbed a little, held his hand in hers until the blood on his hands seemed to grow fainter.

And here he was, sitting on his ass.

He grabbed the whiskey again, and thought of what May had said before she left. _Those orders came at too high a price. I lost him._

_Have I lost you, Skye?_

_No._

_No._

_You were never mine in the first place._


	35. Wavering

Ward drank in the cockpit for at least an hour, wishing he could get drunk. Even if there was something on the bus strong enough to get past his ridiculously high tolerance, he was on a mission, and Garrett would kill him if he found he’d been drunk.

It was about an hour into the flight when the alert popped up on his control board. It was a blinking light with a warning about de-pressurization and the ramp going down… how the hell had Skye managed to get out of the cell?

He dropped the plane into autopilot again and jumped up, drawing his gun.

If someone else was on board with them… _what needs to be done_ , Ward.

He forced himself to think of Garrett; of Prague and rescues and bullets meant for Ward’s heart that lodged in Garrett’s side instead. Of an angry teenage boy with no future. Of a rescue that meant purpose and new life and that no one could fuck with him again.

Ward drew his gun.

They were taking Lola— _and goddamnit why did he still call the car by the name Coulson gave it?_ —and Ward fired.

Near the tires, the thrusters, and then—because Garrett was watching his every move, because Coulson had told him ages ago that the glass was bulletproof—he fired a few shots at the windshield.

Skye screamed and ducked, and Coulson dove over her, covering her with his body.

Ward fired again— _don’t think don’t think don’t think_ —and hit the tires, fired once more— _think of Garrett of rescues of bullets meant for you­_ —and hit one of Lola’s thrusters.

They escaped.

Of course they did.

Coulson had gone to the ends of the earth to save Skye once, and Ward had known it was only a matter of time before Coulson had rescued Skye from them.

“We have the information,” Deathlok said as Ward closed the ramp. “We need to get back to Garrett now.”

“I don’t answer to you,” Ward said coldly. “I don’t answer to anyone who tries to kill me.”

“You answer to Garrett,” Deathlok said, that little mocking smile on his face again.

“I trust Garrett,” Ward said roughly. _Don’t I?_

“He wants us back now.”

“We have to go back for Skye and Coulson.” _If she was here maybe I could make her understand._

_But if she was here, she would be in Garrett’s custody._

_She might even end up in the same room as Ian Quinn. And I don’t think I could let that happen._

“Ward,” Deathlok said curtly. “Turn the plane around.”

Ward sighed. “Coordinates.”

“What?”

“Give me the goddamn coordinates and I’ll put the plane on autopilot,” he snapped, and then waited until Garrett had transmitted the coordinates to Deathlok’s eye piece. “But we have to stay at this altitude until the drive is finished decrypting.”

Deathlok told him the coordinates, and Ward shoved his gun in his belt and started towards the door of the cockpit.

“And I smashed your whiskey bottle,” Deathlok called nonchalantly. “Garrett doesn’t think you should be drinking on such an important mission.”

Ward whirled on him, fury coursing through his veins. “Well, obviously I can hold my alcohol,” he hissed. “And you had no right to do that.”

Deathlok didn’t even dignify him with a response, just turned and left as if he couldn’t care less.

Ward put in the coordinates and locked the route, then made his way to Jemma’s old bunk. She and Fitz had decided to store the beer there, because it was a less likely hiding place than Fitz’s bunk, and Coulson obviously hadn’t wanted them drunk on the plane. Not that they were planning on getting drunk, Simmons had stressed, but they wanted to keep their options open should “field work” prove too stressful.

Ward knew that was only because Fitz kept all his snacks in his bunk room, and didn’t want anyone touching them.

Fitz’s bunk was ridiculous—partially because there was also a small monkey figurine decorating the room, even though technically they weren’t supposed to have personally decorated their living quarters—and partially because of the snacks hidden in nearly every crevice of the room.

Ward grinned slightly and then the smile died on his face. Those guards back at the Fridge—those guards who had let him in because they were trying to save his life—they had looked like Fitz.

And he had pulled the trigger twice.

Ward sank to the ground, hands shaking.

Deathlok was right.

Ward was so badly compromised he could barely stand.

It wasn’t just Skye, he realized, too late. It was all of them—Fitz with his monkeys and snacks, and Jemma with her over-explanation and her passion for science, and May with her fierce love for Coulson, and Coulson with his unwavering belief in second chances, and Skye with her hope and her laughter and her nick names and her dark eyes…

And so it was, as the plane neared the landing site and an annoyed Deathlok shouted for Ward to come and land the Bus, Ward found himself still sitting on the floor of Fitz’s bunk room, his arms around his knees and his head bowed, shaking silently with sobs.

 Because for the first time since he had left the team, Ward was wondering what it would like if he pulled that trigger one more time. If his own body would look like those boys at the Fridge when they fell in that elevator.

And then he thought about what it would have been like if he had pulled the trigger earlier, before the team knew about his betrayal. If Skye would disappear for a few hours until May found her and brought boxing gloves and chocolate. If May would be more quiet than normal until Coulson came and put a hand on her arm. If Coulson would say something about second chances or just sit looking forward emptily as he did after Skye had been shot. If Fitz would cry and pretend not to, and Jemma would hold his hand through all of it.

Ward stood now, clawing at his face in an attempt to scrape the pathetic tears out of his eyes. He thought of Garrett as he always did, and hoped that he’d have the Berserker staff waiting for him.

Garrett was waiting for him just inside the entrance to their complex. He dismissed Deathlok with a nod, and then came forward and slapped Ward on the shoulder. “Hey, kid,” he said casually, and Ward, who had expected to find relief in reuniting with his mentor, felt anger surge at the back of his mind.

His heart, so recently stopped, was still beating too fragile a pattern to think of Prague and prison and the debts that lost boys owed, and he glanced down at the scorch mark on his shirt from Deathlok’s weapon.

He thought of Skye suddenly, and her determination not to give Hydra what they wanted, until he had been at risk.

 And it was with a sinking feeling in his gut that he realized he owed an unrepayable life debt to two people who could not be more different.


	36. Berserker: a New Memory

As soon as Garrett had debriefed him, Ward had gone to his bunk and pulled the Berserker staff from under his bed. The gloves helped—it had enabled him to connect with the rage and the power but keep the memories quiet.

Now, though, he didn’t want the gloves. If he couldn’t remember the hell he came from, there would be no purpose in what he did now. No purpose in losing Skye like he had.

He carried the staff in gloved hands until he reached the location of his next mission. 

Garrett had some Hydra agents who had gone rogue and were trying to leave with some of the science behind the Extremis program, in the hopes of selling it to the highest bidder, and it was Ward’s job to make sure none of them got away.

 _What needs to be done_ , he told himself. He closed his eyes to steel himself for the rage and for the blood that would stain his hands when he came out of it again, but when he closed his eyes all he could see was Skye.

With a low snarl, he ripped the gloves from his hands and grasped the staff in both fists.

The three men who had composed his team looked at him nervously.

“Go back to Garrett,” Ward growled. “I can do this alone.”

“Sir, there are almost thirty men in their compound”—

Ward felt the back of his hand collide with the man’s face, and he stumbled backwards. The other two backed off, eyes widening slightly, but Ward barely noticed.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered but his orders.

“I said,” Ward hissed through his teeth. “I can do it alone.”

_He had said those exact words to Skye once, and what had she said?_

_“I know you can. I just wish you didn’t have to.”_

Ward gritted his teeth.

He would not think of her.

Not here.

Not when he was preparing to do the only thing he was truly good at.

 _Hydra agents. High-risk targets. They would have sold dangerous secrets to terrorists,_ Ward told himself, trying not to think of the fact that Hydra was its own kind of terrorist organization.

Ward clenched his hands tighter around the staff, and felt the memories flood him with rage and desperation and the strength that came from both of them.

_It hadn’t started with the well._

_It had started so much earlier._

_He had been six years old when his grandmother died, and the state had decided that his mother was fit to have care of him again._

_The first time someone hit him was when he had gotten sick on the carpet. It had been the flu or food poisoning or something—or maybe he had seen something so awful his memories had blocked it out—he didn’t know._

_His mother had been drunk. His father hadn’t been, and maybe that was the worst part._

_His older brother, Maynard, had stuck the burning end of his cigarette onto Ward’s skin, and when Ward screamed, his mother had told him to shut up._

_His father had told him to be a man and stop whining._

_Shut up, Grant._

_You piece of shit._

_Why are you crying, little bro? You pussy._

_What, you can’t handle this? What about this?_

Ward kicked in the door and drove his staff through the guard. _Piece of shit pussy be a man be a man be a man._ The other guard didn’t even have the chance to sound the alarm.

Of course he didn’t.

_His little brother Jack had been four when Maynard locked him outside. Massachusetts was cold in January, and Ward had cried and begged him to open the door._

_Maynard had just laughed and kicked back on the couch with a beer he had stolen from their father’s stash._

_Ward had hated him, then, but when he tried to open the door, Maynard sent him flying across the room._

_All the same, when their father came home and demanded to know why one of the beers was missing, Ward had still stepped up and taken the blame for Maynard—taken the beating that should have been his brother’s._

Six of the rogue lieutenants were down, as well as a handful of guards and a scientist.

Ward kicked in another door and sent the two men inside flying with a single sweep of the staff.

_The well._

_Jack, crying, struggling, calling his name._

_Grant._

_Grant._

_Grant._

_“Your name, it means protector,” his grandmother had told him before she died. “Great protector.”_

_Protector._

_Protector._

_Protector._

_He didn’t throw the rope._

Ward slammed an elbow into the face of the last guard, and sent the last scientist flying backwards into a crate of empty beakers and test tubes. That was the last one. Garrett’s mission was complete.

He switched on his earpiece. “It’s done,” he said, closing his eyes.

Only it wasn’t.

The staff usually worked backwards—sending him deep into his memories until he had relived the very worst one at the well, and then he would resurface, exhausted and depleted.

But he couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

Because this was a different memory that flooded his mind, his bones, his skin.

_The house was surrounded by guards, but he was confident. Garrett hadn’t issued any kill orders—he would have told Ward if he had, so Skye would be fine. He would find her in a minute, laughing easily because Skye was always, always strong and resilient and going to be okay._

_And then there was blood on Ian Quinn’s hands._

_There was blood on his clothes._

_The cellar was dark and suffocating and it was closing in on Ward._

_Because there she was._

_Bleeding out._

_Skye._

_Skye._

_Skye._

_Was he screaming? He couldn’t breathe, because this wasn’t her, couldn’t be her, bleeding in Coulson’s arms._

_They were lifting her, carrying her—Coulson looked stricken—May shouted at them to be gentle—Fitz was nearly whimpering—and Jemma, tiny gentle Jemma was screaming at them to put Skye into the hyperbaric chamber._

_There was blood there was blood there was so much blood on his hands and it was hers god it was hers and she was dying and there was no light in her eyes and the world was ending and he couldn’t do this couldn’t live in a world without Skye._

_Skye, he screams. Skye!_

When he opened his eyes, it was to see Garrett striding towards him, his face angry.

“Put the staff down, Ward,” Garrett said slowly. “It’s over. You’ve done enough. Come on, kid—it’s okay. It’s alright. You’re not in that well, kid, you’re here with me.”

But for just a brief second, Ward let himself wonder what it would be like to put that staff through Garrett’s heart.

For her. For the memory still so fresh in his mind of Skye, broken, bleeding.

It was a memory that dwarfed the memory of the well. The well may have been the first time Grant Ward had felt hate, but the day Skye was shot was the first time he felt hatred for John Garrett.


	37. Rescue Mission

Ward boarded the bus beside Garrett, still seething. This was something more than the usual Berserker rage.

“Why did you take the gloves off?” Garrett’s voice snapped him to attention.

“I wanted to be stronger,” Ward said coldly. “You never know when someone might issue a kill order on me.”

“Oh, god,” Garrett rolled his eyes. “We’ve been over this. The girl was never going to let you die, and you know it.”

“I didn’t,” Ward said. “I didn’t know that. You took a major chance.”

“There was no chance,” Garrett said, making his way into the lab room. Ward followed, still fighting to control the rage pulsing through him. “I knew she wouldn’t let you die. Just like I knew you wouldn’t let her die.”

“Sir?”

“You won’t do what needs to be done, Ward,” Garrett said softly, but his words twisted through Ward like a knife. “Not when it comes to the girl.”

“I have done _everything_ you asked since the day we met. I have _sacrificed_ and I have _trained_ and I have _bled_ for you. I have done what needs to be done,” Ward snarled. “I have done it over and over again, so don’t you dare”—

Garrett gasped suddenly, and clutched his side. “Grant”—

He hadn’t called him that in years.

Garrett staggered, and fear shot through Ward.

“John”—

He fell, and Ward caught him in his arms, all the rage erased suddenly by fear. “John”—

He lifted Garrett, shouting for someone to help, and they carried him to the lab.

Raina looked up as they came in, and then a slow smile dawned across her face as if she had just figured something out.

“Get out of here,” Ward snarled, grabbing Garrett’s med kit. When Raina didn’t move, he grabbed her shoulder roughly and nearly threw her into the grasp of one of Garrett’s soldiers. “I said _get her out of here_! All of you!”

When they were gone, Ward bent over Garrett and began hooking up the stabilizing agent to Garrett’s metal cyborg plate. “This will stabilize you for now,” Ward said. “John? Do you hear me?”

Garrett’s hand closed over Ward’s, and Ward was astounded to feel how fragile the man’s grip felt. “I hear you,” he said feebly, and Ward felt his whole body go cold at how weak his mentor’s voice sounded.

Ward helped him to sit up, his arms him. “John?” he asked softly, after Garrett had coughed hoarsely, his whole body shaking, and then, finally, sat up straighter. “How do you feel?”

“Better,” Garrett said shortly.

“It hasn’t happened this badly in a while,” Ward said, stepping back and looking down at Garrett, his forehead creased in worry.

“Yes it has.” The words were spoken quietly, but they hit Ward like a punch in the gut. “The centipede serum is the only thing keeping me alive, but I don’t have long. My organs are failing.” Garrett said the words as if it were nothing, but Ward saw the fear in his eyes.

It was a fear he recognized.

_We survive, me and Garrett._

_That’s what we do._

_We survive together._

And the thought that there could be a world without John Garrett sent waves of panic coursing through him.

“Raina needs to hurry,” Ward said curtly.

“Now do you understand, Ward? Why I needed to have that hard drive decrypted so quickly?” Garrett said, sitting up.

Ward helped him to his feet. “Of course, sir. And I’m”—

“Sorry?” Garrett barked out a laugh. “Of course you are. Apologies always come late with you, don’t they?”

Ward rubbed his forehead, flinching inwardly at the words. “I shouldn’t have doubted your reasons, sir.”

“I was never going to let you die, and you know that,” Garrett said fiercely, and Ward avoided his gaze, hating himself for that little whisper of doubt still nagging at the back of his mind. “Next time you could at least give me the courtesy of a little trust before you jump down my throat about the orders I give.”

“Of course, sir,” Ward said.

Garrett slapped his shoulder, and then bent over slightly, taking a long breath. Worry obliterated everything else in Ward’s mind once again.

“You should rest, sir,” Ward said gently, placing a hand on Garrett’s shoulder. “And you shouldn’t get close to any kind of combat or action until we’ve fixed this. When was the last time you had one of these attacks?”

Garrett looked up at him sharply, and it was a long moment before he answered, “The last time I had to… exert myself,” he said. “So right before you left to get the hard drive.”

Ward felt the guilt hit him like a physical force. He had needed to take a beating to make his cover believable; he had asked Garrett to hit him, as he always asked. Whether he had asked because it made him stronger or because it was relief, he never really questioned, but now the knowledge tore at him. He had been selfish. So selfish.

He had forced Garrett to give him his cover and it had made Garrett weaker.

And for that, Ward would never forgive himself.

“You should get some rest,” Ward said softly, wishing it could convey the depth of the regret he felt. “I can take care of things for now.”

Garrett nodded and placed a hand on his arm. “I trust you, kid.”

Ward helped Garrett to the bunk that had been his during his time on the bus, and on his way back to the lab to find Raina, he passed by Skye’s old bunk. On the shelf was one of the few possessions Skye had brought with her—a small doll in a hula skirt.

Ward felt the small smile twist his lips involuntarily, and then he stopped himself.

He needed to focus, and that meant he needed to be everything Garrett needed. And being everything Garrett needed meant leaving behind the memories of Skye. Of his team.

It meant, as it always did with Garrett, leaving everything behind and focusing on what he needed to do.

_We’re survivors, no matter what._

_So I will do it. I’ll do anything, for him._

_What needs to be done._


	38. A Brighter Day

_What needs to be done_.

Ward had said the words in his mind over and over and over again, and it was still impossible to focus.

Still impossible to function.

Maybe it was being on the Bus again, but Ward was drowning in memories here.

Garrett was still resting in Ward’s bunk, and Raina was busy in the lab, so Ward wandered around the Bus, checking up on some of the Hydra lieutenants who were running searches on dispersed S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists, monitoring the course of the plane, and stopping by to see what progress Rain was making.

But in the end, he found himself in the main hub of the plane, sitting alone on one of the couches. He could see Skye’s bunk from there, next to it Fitz’s and then Simmons. His old bunk was beside Simmons, and Garrett had crashed there for now. May had slept down below, because she was up early for Tai Chi and used the training rooms, and Coulson, of course, had a room that connected to his office.

Ward poured himself a glass of scotch—amazingly enough, the bottle had survived Victoria Hand’s ordered hit on the plane, as well as whatever catastrophes Garrett’s men had managed to inflict on it.

He pulled up a laptop in front of him so that it looked as if he was working, but in truth, he couldn’t concentrate.

Not here.

There were a hundred thousand memories embedded in this plane… embedded in the air aboard the Bus.

They had played scrabble out here, once—everyone but May and Fitz—and Ward had told himself it was about gaining trust and deep cover and then given up, because Skye had laughed and grabbed his hand, and because Coulson had brought popcorn. It was the night someone had pranked Fitz with shaving cream (Ward still didn’t know who had done it) and Fitz had come out with shaving cream all over his hand and the side of his face. Ward had laughed until his sides hurt, and Skye had elbowed him in the ribs and made some snarky comment about robots that had only made him laugh harder.

“Sir?” one of the Hydra lieutenants stood before him, pulling him out of his reverie. “What should we do about the fuel problem? Agent Nilson says we’re running low.”

“We can refuel when we touch down,” Ward said dismissively. “I scheduled how much fuel we would need for this voyage. Believe me, I know this plane.”

The man nodded and left, and Ward shook his head, wishing he could clear away the memories that seemed to cling to his very skin.

_It was a few days after they left the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy, and Ward entered the main hub to find Fitz standing at his bunk door, staring at the circle of couches…or what used to be the circle of couches. They had been moved and rearranged and covered in blankets, and Fitz was staring at them as if he had no idea what the hell had just happened to him._

_“Fitz?” Ward said questioningly, and Fitz turned to him, shushing him with a finger on his lips._

_“Ward,” Fitz whispered. “Thank god you’re here.”_

_“Why?” Ward whispered back. “Why are we whispering? And what’s going on?”_

_“They’ve—er—built a blanket fort, I think,” Fitz whispered back. “Skye and Simmons. Simmons won’t let me in. Why do girls do that sort of thing, Ward? Have they ever told you?”_

_Ward grinned. “Don’t ask me. This is Skye we’re talking about, so god knows. Why won’t they let you in?”_

_“I don’t know,” Fitz whispered, dropping his voice further so Ward had to lean closer to hear him. “Ward, do you hear that? Are they giggling or crying? Jemma was crying before, and I think Skye might have been, too. What the hell are we supposed to do when that happens?”_

_Ward felt a hint of panic at his words. Skye? Simmons? Crying? “Well dear god, I don’t know. Should we call May?”_

_“No,” Fitz sounded horrified. “I wouldn’t dare. Should we—I don’t know, bring them snacks or—umm—go in the fort and pat them on the back or something?”_

_Ward suppressed his smile. “I don’t know if I’d risk it, Fitz.”_

_“I’ll go if you do.”_

_Ward took a step back, shaking his head. “I just remembered, I have to check the”—_

_“No excuses, Agent Ward,” Fitz folded his arms, staring up at Ward defiantly. “We’re going in.”_

_“Fine,” Ward sighed. “But you have to go first.”_

_“I’m not going first!”_

_“Not without snacks you’re not,” Ward said. “Are there any on the Bus?”_

_Fitz looked away guiltily. “Well—not technically. I mean, not in the kitchen. I mean”—_

_“Do you have a stash?” Ward almost laughed out loud._

_“There’s candy under my bed,” Fitz admitted. “And maybe some pretzels, but the Doritos are Jemma’s, I only keep them there.”_

_Ward snickered, and Fitz shushed him again. They heard a noise—whether a giggle or a sob, they didn’t know—from the blanket fort, and Ward clapped Fitz on the back. “You better hurry up with those snacks, Fitz.”_

_Fitz led the way to his bunk, and when they returned together, they were both carrying an armload of snacks._

_Fitz approached first, but only after he made sure Ward was at his back. “Umm—girls? Simmons? Alright in there?”_

_Another sound._

_Were they still crying?_

_Was it about the S.H.I.E.L.D. kid who died? Was one of them hurt? Was one of them in trouble? Why were they in a goddamn blanket fort?_

_“We’ve brought snacks,” Ward said bravely. “Are you both… are you…umm… are you alright?”_

_Please don’t let them be on their periods please don’t let them be on their periods goddamnit please—_

_A blanket flap flipped up, and Skye’s hand reached out, grabbing Ward’s wrist and pulling him down to their level. Of course the snacks went flying, but Simmons reached out and gathered them in, and Skye dragged Ward under the blanket flap._

_Fitz followed, looking immensely relieved that no one was crying anymore, and the blanket flap dropped behind him._

_“What the hell are we doing here?” Ward asked gruffly, but his lips were twitching, and he couldn’t control the smile that was taking over his face._

_“Simmons and I built a blanket fort,” Skye announced the obvious._

_“When in the field, it is important to unwind from time to time, in various ways,” Simmons added. “And I thought—we thought—this would be a good way. It took you long enough to decide to join us.”_

_“You wouldn’t let me in fifteen minutes ago!” Fitz protested hotly. “And if you’d let me help build, you know, because I’m a_ real _engineer, that corner wouldn’t be sagging, and you’d have more space so Ward wouldn’t be so crunched up next to Skye.”_

_“I don’t mind,” Ward said thoughtlessly, and then turned red and focused his attention on the bag of pretzels Fitz was offering him._

_Skye giggled. “We heard your conversation, you know,” she said, and Jemma started giggling too. “It was fascinating. My name is Grant Ward, and I can bench press a house with my left pinky, but I’m terrified of women,” she imitated, her voice nasally and as low-pitched as she could go._

_“And my name’s Leo Fitz and I’m a rocket scientist but I can’t handle when girls cry,” Jemma said in a near-perfect imitation of Fitz, who protested, laughing, that he didn’t sound like that at all._

_The blanket fort—the goddamn blanket fort that a supposedly-professional mobile command unit was now sitting in—was warm and dim. Ward rolled his eyes, but Skye jabbed him in the arm._

_“Don’t hate on the blanket fort, Robot,” she ordered. “We can still kick you out.”_

_“We brought the snacks, Rookie,” he told her, elbowing her in the side. “You kick us out, you go hungry. Your choice.”_

_Skye laughed, and reached across him for the chips, not even attempting to avoid brushing against his body._

_“So what do you think Coulson would say?” Fitz interjected through a mouthful of chips._

_“That you’re all children,” they heard a voice from outside the blanket fort say, and Ward grinned at the resignation in Coulson’s tone. “May, what are we going to do with them?”_

_“Leave them here.” Ward could hear the amusement in May’s voice. “We’re going upstairs. Don’t spill anything”—_

_“Or break anything”—_

_“Don’t worry, we’ll use coasters, A.C.,” Skye called, and when they had gone, she turned to Simmons. “What are they doing upstairs?”_

_“Fondue,” Simmons said._

_“No, really,” Skye pestered. “What are they doing?”_

_“She’s serious,” Fitz corroborated. “May loves it, so Coulson has fondue up in his office every Friday. It’s her weakness.”_

_“Agent May doesn’t have weaknesses,” Simmons corrected her. “But yes, Skye, they do have fondue up there on some Fridays—not every Friday, Fitz, that would be ridiculous.”_

_“No way,” Skye said. “Ward, are they messing with me again?”_

_“No idea, Rookie,” he said lazily, leaning back so his head rested against her shoulder. “But I like this party better.”_


	39. Somebody's Son

“I want you to bring the scientists in,” Garrett told him, and Ward had brushed aside the memories.

“FitzSimmons? They won’t work for you. They would die first.”

“We have Raina,” Garrett said dismissively. “I don’t need them to work for us.”

“Then I don’t really see the point in bringing them in, sir. Their knowledge and abilities are their only assets”—

“You’re missing the point, kid,” Garrett said. “Coulson will come for them. And we’ll be ready when he does.”

Ward turned away.

He didn’t want to think about Coulson.

“Why do we need Coulson?” he asked sharply. “You have Raina’s GH-325. You have scientists— _better_ scientists—and specialists and enough hackers. You don’t need his team.”

“Oh, but this is personal,” Garrett laughed harshly, and then drilled Ward with his stare. “But you would know all about _personal_ , wouldn’t you, kid?”

“Not really, no,” Ward said coldly. “I don’t do _personal_.”

“Not intentionally, at least.”

“Excuse me?”

“My super soldier here tells me that it’s not just the girl you care about,” Garrett said, slapping Deathlok’s shoulder. He turned and put a hand on Ward’s arm, and Ward flinched involuntarily. “And you really need to work on your whole touch phobia. I’m surprised you had that girl going for as long as you did”—

“Stop.”

“What was that?” Garrett asked, his voice deadly quiet.

“I said _stop_ ,” Ward said. “You said you trusted me, sir, so stop throwing all that shit in my face. The team was just a cover. Nothing more. The rest of them never mattered to me.”

It was a lie and he knew it, but he was beginning to realize that Garrett couldn’t possibly tell anymore.  

Keeping a cover could go both ways, Ward was discovering. Lying was nothing new.

“Good,” Garrett said carelessly. “Then it won’t be a problem for you to bring the scientists in.”

God, Coulson was going to kill him, and May? May would make sure it was painful. She had beaten Ian Quinn’s face in after Skye had been shot, but when it came to the scientists, they were all more protective than usual.

Raina called from the doorway, and Garrett followed her into the lab.

“You’re a terrible liar, Agent Ward,” Deathlok said, his lip curling.

“I’ve been told I’m pretty good at it, actually,” Ward smirked.

“I saw you when you were with your team,” Deathlok ignored his words. “And no one can fake a cover that well.”

“I can.”

“No, Agent Ward, you _thought_ you could, but like I told you before,” he continued, his lip twisting into a sneer. “You’re so fucked. And you know it.”

Ward shoved past him, knowing the words were true.

He’d known that. Of course he did. It was a weakness, and he hadn’t seen it coming.

Or maybe he had.

When was it when he first realized that he had started to care? Siberia, maybe?

They had been extracting an agent who had gone undercover gathering intel, and Coulson had gone in first as a prisoner.

Ward and May had followed in their own way—the way that involved a more violent form of Tai Chi for May and a lot of fists for Ward. There had been more guards than anticipated, and it took them a few minutes longer than planned to reach Coulson. When they had reached him, one of the interrogators had blackened his eye.

It had filled him with a rage he had tried to suppress, but when he had finished the other two guards, he found that May had already destroyed the man. Trust her to get there first.

They had brought the agent and his intel back to the Hub, where Ward met Victoria Hand for the first time.

And hated her.

She was different than the other commanding officers he had met—icy cold and uncaring. It was the impression May gave on first meeting, though May, he knew, cared deeply. He had seen it in the way she looked at Coulson when she thought no one was watching.

Or maybe what really bothered him about Hand was the way she looked at Coulson as if he was dirt beneath her feet. Ward watched her face as she leered slightly at Coulson’s bruise, and it was with certainty that Ward realized this was the S.H.I.E.L.D. he hated.

It wasn’t until a second later that it had hit him: he was not supposed to be feeling protective about any of these people… especially Agent Coulson.

It had only gotten worse. It was later on the same mission from the Hub that Ward realized how bad it really was.

He and Fitz had been assigned a mission into disputed border territory, and Coulson had pulled him aside before they left. “Take care of him,” he had said fiercely, and Ward was taken aback at how much Coulson cared.

“Of course,” Ward had told him, and he had looked away, because if he looked Coulson in the eye, he almost believed himself.

And then Fitz had shouldered in wearing some ridiculous dark clothing that was supposed to resemble op-ready gear, his curly head bobbing as he swaggered through the lab, acting as if he was assigned an undercover, active-duty op every other day. Ward had found himself grinning just slightly and promising himself that he would protect the kid at all costs. It wasn’t as if this particular mission mattered to Garrett, anyway, Ward had reasoned to himself.

Afterwards was perhaps the worst bit—after Coulson had found out there was no extraction plan and flown the Bus out there to get them. Ward had thanked him, of course, like a good soldier, and Coulson had just nodded and said, “We take care of our own.”

_Our own._

As if that was ever going to work.

Ward heard Garrett calling him now, and it jerked him out of his reverie.

“They have a location on the scientists,” Garrett informed him, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re up, son.”

Ward shrugged his hand off. “Yes, sir.”

What had he told Garrett all those years ago? _I’m nobody’s son_.

Coulson had said the word twice—once when he told him about Skye’s missing family history and once when he had told Ward to take care of himself after the incident with Lorelei.

Ward hadn’t minded then.

Hadn’t minded when Coulson had stood outside a stupid blanket fort and laughed. Hadn’t minded when Coulson had joined the team in making a birthday celebration for him—the first in his life. Hadn’t minded when Coulson had told him to stick with Skye because she was good for him.

“Are you ready, kid?”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said, resenting the use of the word “kid” for the first time since he had known Garrett. “And you can stop calling me ‘kid,’ sir.”

“When you stop acting like one,” Garrett laughed, shoving Ward slightly.

Ward didn’t laugh, just leaned in closer and hissed, “I am _not_ the kid you found fifteen years ago.”

Garrett just smirked and handed Ward a handgun. “You won’t need more than that, will you?”

“I don’t think I’ll need _that_ ,” Ward said dismissively. “You do know Coulson’s team will have my ass for bringing these two in?”

A small part of him hoped that the team would get to FitzSimmons first; hoped, even, that they would be there to give him that beating when he arrived, if only so he didn’t have to hand the two young ones over to Garrett.

Garrett looked at him strangely. “They can’t take you. Can they, son?”

 _Son, again,_ Ward thought angrily, strapping the gun to his belt. _I’m nobody’s son._

But it hit him as he crossed the airfield to find Fitz and Simmons; the desperate, ugly truth of it all:

_Oh you fool, Ward, you fool._

_You’ve always wanted to be somebody’s son._


	40. Little Brother

Three times Grant Ward had to make an impossible choice, and three times people got hurt no matter what he chose.

The first was a dark day near an old well in Massachusetts.

_A little boy, crying._

_Ward, hesitating a moment too long, and then throwing a rope. I’ll save you, little brother._

_His older brother, sending a fist into his face and then a fist to their little brother’s gut._

_A little boy, doubled over in pain._

_It was the moment Ward realized he couldn’t save him. That no one could._

 It was the day that changed everything.

The second choice was ten years later.

_It was just a dog; a dog that belonged to Garrett and not to him. It shouldn’t be this difficult. It was just a goddamn dog._

_Ward hesitated a moment too long, and then he turned the pistol into the air, shooting high. The dog ran off, and Ward nearly smiled. He had saved something worth saving for the first time in his life._

_Now, at least, Buddy had a fighting chance._

_Until he didn’t._

_Until Ward found Garrett packing up a sniper rifle. Until he saw the dark smudge of Buddy’s body against the green of the forest and realized there had never been a chance. Not for him, and not for Buddy._

The third choice wasn’t a choice.

It was desperation and orders and Fitz’s eyes and Jemma screaming and Ward wanting to scream until his voice was gone.

Fitz had used an EMP to short out Garrett’s Deathlok implants, and Garrett had fallen, rage and fear filling his eyes. Ward had held him up instinctively, panic annihilating any ability he had to think straight.

Garrett’s soldiers had dragged Fitz back, and Fitz had let them, tears shining on his face.

Ward had stared at him in disbelief, and then it was with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach that Ward realized the truth: Fitz hadn’t done it for himself, or even for Jemma. He had done it for Ward. As if this could save him.

And then Garrett gave him the order.

The kill order.

And he could do it—couldn’t possibly do it—not Fitz, not Jemma, they were just kids—

“Is it a weakness?” Garrett’s voice was weak and strained, but the words still had the ability to make Ward feel as if he was being physically punched in the gut.

Ward turned away. “No,” he said, his voice sounding cold and distant. “No, it’s not.”

And in that moment, Ward realized once again how truly weak he was, because he couldn’t do this. This was it: the order he couldn’t carry out.

He couldn’t carry the order out, and he knew someone else would. There was no stopping that.

Until he followed Fitz and Simmons to an escape pod and realized that there were breaks that only came once in a lifetime. And this was a break they deserved.

“Ward,” Fitz was shouting, and Jemma was screaming something at him, but Ward turned away and tuned them out.

Despite his orders, for the first time in his life, Ward felt hope flood his body. Because this escape pod floated. Because they were flying low over the ocean. Because he had recognized the coin in Fitz’s hand as a tracking device.

Because for the first time, Ward could save them both.

FitzSimmons and Garrett.

“I know that you care about us, Ward!” Fitz screamed desperately, and Ward turned, just before he pushed the button.

“I do,” he said, and to his shame he felt his throat clench with emotion. “It’s a weakness.”

_You will always be weak, Ward. But at least this time you can give them a chance._

_Like you tried to give Buddy a chance._

Ward forced himself to look at their faces, finally, and what he saw cemented his own ruin: the desperation and the anger and the grief and the utter hopelessness on their faces as they begged him, one last time, to make the right choice.

_It’s a weakness._

_And this is the only way._

He pushed the button, and watched them fall.

And despite his belief that they would make it out—despite his confidence in FitzSimmon’s ability to think their way out of any situation—Ward knew that this was finally it. The decision that defined him.

The decision to let little brother fall had always meant he was finally and fully beyond any hope.


	41. Madness

Ward paced outside of his old bunk, clenching and unclenching his fists as he waited for Raina. When she emerged from the lab, he grabbed her elbow and dragged her into the nearest bunk room, realizing a second too late that it had been Skye’s.

“This was her bunk, wasn’t it?” Raina asked softly, her eyes glinting maliciously. “Skye’s?”

“I don’t remember,” Ward lied. “And that’s not what I want to talk about. Garrett’s losing it. And you need to do something.”

Raina laughed softly. “Losing it? Are you uncomfortable with evolution, Agent Ward?”

“For the last damn time, I’m not _agent_ of anything,” Ward snapped. “And you need to do something, or if you can’t, you have to try. Garrett’s coming unhinged.”

Raina laughed and turned on her heel, parading out of the room that had been Skye’s.

For some reason, the sight filled him with anger.

He followed her into the main hub, and stopped at the sight of Garrett talking animatedly to Deathlok, who stared straight ahead stonily, as always. As Ward approached them, Garrett yanked a door off its hinges.

“Sir, are you alright?”

“Never better,” Garrett said, again with that unnerving brightness. “Someone bring me a nail!” he called out, his eyes flashing with an odd, empty look of triumph. “I need to jot some thoughts down.”

“John”—

Ward tried again. In the past, calling his mentor by his first name was one of the only things that would bring Garrett back to himself, and this time, Ward realized with growing panic, it wasn’t working.

He tried to recall what he had done in the past to pacify Garrett, but he batted the thought away immediately—he couldn’t ask Garrett to hit him, not here in front of Raina and Quinn, and Ward didn’t have confidence in his ability to hold up under what Garrett could do to him with this new strength. Besides, Garrett wasn’t angry at this point, so he didn’t need that outlet. Not now, at least.

“Lighten up, son!” Garrett clapped his hand on Ward’s shoulder, and then grabbed the nail from the soldier he had summoned. He turned and began scratching lines onto the glass door he had just removed. “This is what we’ve wanted this whole time.”

“I can hardly believe it,” Ward said, but the words sounded forced, even to him.

_Why aren’t you excited for him? Why can’t you just be happy for him? What the hell is wrong with you, Ward?_

“This is everything we’ve worked for over the past ten years,” Ward continued, avoiding Deathlok’s darkly sardonic look. “Saving you.”

Garrett nodded, a grin spreading across his face again. “Oh, Ward, you’ve done so well. You’ve taken care of me all these years.” He clapped a hand on Ward’s back. “It’s time you did something for yourself.”

This was everything Ward had wanted ever since Garrett had saved him, so many times and in so many ways, fifteen years ago.

This was what he had worked for since he’d been sprung from juvie so long ago.

He had everything now—he had saved Garrett, he had his mentor’s trust and pride in him. He had exactly what he had longed for constantly for fifteen long years in which he’d sacrificed and bled for this.

So why didn’t it feel like a victory?

And why couldn’t he close his eyes without seeing them all—the boys he’d killed at the Fridge, Agent Hand, Agent Koenig, and so, so many others—in his mind’s eye? Why was he finding it impossible to think of this victory he had fought for since the beginning?  

Garrett turned towards Raina, throwing up his arms and his strange, psychotic grin lighting up his face with an eerie light. Raina smiled at him, and Quinn, who had joined her, shrank back, unable to completely hide the disgust he felt.

“Sir?” Ward called after him, hating the worry in his voice.

Garrett didn’t turn around; didn’t even hear him, and Ward saw Deathlok’s smug look.

Ward turned on his heel and strode away, trying to suppress the waves of fear rolling through his body.

He made his way back to the main hub of the plane, and stopped outside his bunk, clenching his hands to still the shaking of his hands.

As he tried to control the rising helpless panic that felt like it was embedding itself in his very bones, Ward began to realize with frightening clarity that now, he was truly worthless. He had saved Garrett, the man who had saved him, and now Garrett didn’t need him anymore, not really.

He would have followed Garrett to the end, but perhaps this was the end Garrett had wanted.

And not even when he had been going into cardiac arrest had Ward felt as pathetically disposable as he did now.


	42. Husk

_“You are nothing without orders, Grant,” Raina said softly, and the words jerked Ward around like a physical force. He had been walking to his bunk—he slept down below, now, unable to sleep when he was so close to the rooms that had belonged to his former team—and had been hoping to turn in for the night when Raina had stepped out of the shadows._

_“Excuse me?” Ward growled, stepping away from her._

_“Does it terrify you?” she continued, her dark eyes glinting savagely. “Does it terrify you how disposable you are once you have completed your orders?”_

_Ward rolled his eyes. “Your words mean nothing,” he spat. “You’re an orphan who needs flower dresses to be remembered.”_

_“Oh, I’m not concerned with being remembered, Ward,” she said softly. “You’re the only one on this plane who fears being forgotten. Tossed away when we’re finished, nothing but a shell of a man.”_

_“Who is planning to toss me to the side?” Ward scoffed. “In case you hadn’t realized, Garrett trusted me to do a sixteen-month undercover op with the man Nick Fury considered worth resurrecting from the dead, and I completed it perfectly. Garrett’s not planning to throw me away.”_

_“Oh, not planning, Agent Ward,” Raina laughed softly. “He already has.”_


	43. Bone of my Bone

“You need to talk to Garrett,” Ward persisted. It was the morning after their somewhat discomfiting conversation, and Raina smiled as if she knew her words were still making his skin crawl. “You need to do something. He’s coming unhinged. And I don’t like it.”

Raina disappeared into the room containing the gravitonium, and Ian Quinn joined Ward outside.  

“Do you think he’s actually crazy?”

Ward turned to him sharply, annoyed. “What do you care?” he snapped. “You’ll get what you want out of it, won’t you?”

Quinn raised his eyebrows, and Ward suppressed the urge to wipe the smug expression off the man’s face with his fists.

“Was it worth it?” he asked suddenly. “You had to spend so much time undercover. I had to spend time in prison. A tiny little cell.” He shuddered. “I suppose we were each in our own prisons for a while.”

“Are you looking for sympathy?” Ward asked coldly. “Or do you just like to hear yourself talk?”  

“I’ve never been so surprised in my life,” Quinn continued, a smirk crossing his face at Ward’s words. “You were the biggest surprise. There was always something slightly psychotic about him. I mean, he wanted to throw me out of a plane the first time I saw him. I should’ve known, I guess”—

He stopped at Ward’s look.

“We all wanted to throw you out of the plane, ass hole,” Ward said, trying hard to keep his tone measured and even. “We still do.”

Quinn took the smallest of steps back, but then reached out and slapped Ward’s shoulder jovially. “Look, I didn’t mean to piss you off, kid”—

Ward’s hand was around his throat in an instant, driving him back against the wall. “Don’t. Touch. Me.” He lifted Quinn into the air, his whole body shaking with rage as Quinn gasped for breath. He released him a second later, and Quinn crashed to the ground. “And don’t you _dare_ call me ‘kid.’”

He turned away, but when he reached the door, he heard Quinn rasp, “It’s because of… of Skye,” he choked, and when Ward turned on his heel he saw that the bastard was still smirking, even though there was fear in his eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Ward slammed his foot into the man’s ribs, and heard a crack that was music to his ears. He bent down until his face was inches from Quinn’s. There was real, honest fear there now, and Ward’s lip twisted into something that could hardly be called a smile. “If I hear you so much as say her name ever again,” he said softly. “I will kill you. Slowly.”

And then he walked away, leaving Quinn huddled on the ground, shaking with fear.

Ward wandered through the plane aimlessly for a long time, trying to control the rage pulsing through his body. The rage—and the fear—had not been this strong since the last time he held the Berserker staff in his hands.

Garrett summoned him to his office—he had commandeered one of the smaller labs to be his personal space—and was grinning wolfishly when Ward arrived. “Quinn is begging the US government for money,” Garrett announced. “And we’re going to… interrupt.”

Ward he felt sick to his stomach. “Don’t you think we should let Ian Quinn get his business done first, John?”

“Oh, we’re just going to help,” Garrett said brightly.

“John”—

“I had a talk with Flowers earlier,” Garrett interrupted him. “She sorted some things out for me.”

Ward nodded in relief and followed Garrett into the complex, where Quinn was trying to convince several military commanders that the noise around the complex was a practice drill and not Coulson’s team coming after their asses.

“Sir,” Ward whispered. “We need to get you out of here. Coulson and his team will be here any minute.”

“No they won’t,” Garrett said cheerfully, leading Ward towards the officers.

“Who the hell is this?” the leader demanded. He was a balding man in his fifties, who looked as if he were about to call in backup any minute. Beside him, one of his generals was fidgeting, and sweat was beading on his temple—this man would be the first to pull a weapon if things heated up. There were four other men, and Ward mentally ranked which would pose the most threat should they decide to try to stop Garrett.

“Here’s another plan,” Garrett was saying, and Ward watched him intently. “You should shut your mouth.”

Ward winced inwardly. _What the hell, Garrett? Don’t fuck this up._

Quinn tried to interfere, sending desperate looks to Ward and then to Deathlok. Both of them looked at him in disgust, and Garrett pushed Quinn out of the way.

“I think we need a demonstration,” the general said, and Garrett smiled, that same odd smile he had always had, but this time with a twist of madness.

“Of course,” he said, and then he plunged his hand inside the man’s chest.

Quinn nearly jumped backwards, turning slightly green, and the other men drew their weapons, fear and shock and disgust written plainly across their faces. Ward felt his stomach turn at the sight, as Garrett ranted about evolution, his hand still inside the man’s chest cavity, but he kept it in check.

It was what Garrett had trained him to do: to be the silent, impassive face no matter what Garrett did in front of him; to show no emotion no matter how he felt about Garrett’s decision.

Garrett pulled his hand out, and his dripping fist was clenched around one of the man’s ribs.

Behind him, Quinn was throwing up in the corner.

“This is the beginning,” Garrett said, his eyes bright and unfocused.

“The beginning of what, John?” Ward asked, stepping forward. _John._ It was the name that always made Garrett stop and listen, but this time?

This time, Garrett chuckled. “The end,” he said, his voice rising, and then he raised the rib in the man’s hand and sent it plunging into the man’s eye.

“John!” Ward shouted, but it was too late, and the other officers were staring at both of them, their eyes wide with fear.

He wondered briefly if his own face mirrored their fear and disgust, but he motioned to the Hydra guards. “Lock them up,” he said, gesturing to the officers. “I have to get him out of here.”

“Oh, Ward,” Garrett planted a bloody hand on Ward’s chest, and Ward flinched backwards involuntarily. “I’m not going anywhere.

No, I’m just getting started.”


	44. Of Monsters and Orders

When Ward found Raina after the disaster, she was carrying her bag and heading off the Bus.

He swung her around by her elbow, yanking her bag out of her hands and throwing it to the floor. “Garrett said you helped him! What the _hell_ did you say to him?” he demanded, spit flying from his lips.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so desperate.

No, scratch that. He could, with alarming clarity. It was the last time Garrett had left him on his own, in the middle of a forest with nothing to eat and no way to keep himself alive for the next year.

Raina looked un-phased at his anger. “I didn’t _say_ anything, Ward,” she said calmly. “I listened.”

“Did you listen to the part where _he’s coming fucking unhinged_? Or did you miss that part, _Flowers_?”

“He’s made some interesting discoveries,” she said, stepping past him and lifting her bag as calmly as if he couldn’t snap her neck in an instant. “About how special he is… inside. How special others are, too. Skye.”

The name pierced his skin, and Ward straightened to his full height, enraged. “Can you just leave her the fuck out of this? Don’t tell me you’re following Garrett into this psychosis?”

“Oh, Ward,” she smiled. “You’re the only one on this plane who follows. I listen, I agree or disagree, but I _choose_. You?” She laughed lightly. “You follow orders, Grant. You don’t have anything without them.”

“I don’t just follow”—

“Well, this time, I’d say it’s a good thing. For the first time since I’ve joined you, all three of us what the same thing.”

“What are you talking about?” Ward scoffed. “I need him,” Ward snarled, not stopping to care how desperate his words sounded. “I need him to get his head back on straight. I need him to stop this, I need him”—

“Skye. That’s what I’m talking about. All three of us need Skye.”

 _Stop saying her name, just stop. Fucking stop._ He wanted to scream, but he clenched his teeth and hissed at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You could have her someday,” Raina whispered, leaning close. “And that’s all you’ve ever wanted, isn’t it? For Skye to be yours?”

Ward stepped back, his face twisting with rage as his throat clenched with emotion. “That—that is how I know you’ve lost it,” he said, hating the tremble in his voice. “Because she _detests_ me. She thinks I’m a monster.”

_And she’s right._

He looked away from Raina, biting his lip.

Raina watched him carefully, and Ward hated the scrutiny; hated the feeling of loss that ripped through him; hated the grief for what could never have been that pressed in on him from all sides.

_Skye._

_Oh, Skye._

_I paid the highest price to follow orders. And I lost you._

_Because it’s true._

_I am a monster._

*“Are you?” Raina asked softly. “Is that your true nature? Or is that what Garrett made you to be?”*

And for the first time, he considered the question honestly.

“I don’t know,” he said, letting out a long breath that felt like release.

“You know,” Raina continued. “You know about the darkness that lies inside Skye. But you don’t just know of it—you know it, Grant Ward, because you face it every time you face yourself. And I… well. I’m here to see a world where that darkness doesn’t have to be buried. That day is coming, Ward, and I’ll be ready when it does. Will you? And more importantly… will she?”

“No,” Ward whispered. _She’s not a monster._

_Becoming a monster… that’s the sum of your choices._

_And Skye has made all the right ones._

Raina lifted her bag and turned to go. “Someday,” she said softly, and her tone chilled him to the bone. “You two can be monsters together.”

Ward let out a ragged breath, and with a chilling certainty, he realized he would kill the first person who tried to make Skye into a monster. The first person who _told_ her about the darkness lying dormant.

Skye—she was the kind that must be protected at all costs, from monsters… monsters like himself.

By now, FitzSimmons would have signaled the team, and Coulson would have picked up the pod and led them straight to this complex. Skye would come, and Ward would get Garrett out of harm’s way.

And when he had completed those orders, he would make sure Garrett stayed distracted long enough for Skye to get to safety.

Raina made her way down to the truck Ian Quinn was hijacking, her head thrown back carelessly as if she were off to see a world she had just conquered.

Oddly, Ward felt a sudden sense of loss.

Because now?

Now there was nothing.

No orders, no Skye, no reasons behind the growing madness, no longer even the scientist capable of getting through to John Garrett.

Raina had been right all those ages ago:

There was nothing that terrified Grant Ward more than existing in a world full of variables.


	45. New Orders

“ _What are my orders_?” Ward nearly screamed the words into John Garrett’s apathetic, smiling face.

“Well, that’s up to you, kid,” Garrett grinned leisurely, but the words shook Ward to the core.

Never once in all the time he had spent with John Garrett had Ward gone without orders, and it broke him.

Because when your life revolves around orders for fifteen years, how do you learn to function without them, besides spinning your wheels aimlessly and digging yourself deeper and deeper into the pit? Do you orbit your own empty core? Or do you just fall, weak after all?

“I need you to _wake up_ , John!” Ward shouted. “Come back!”

_I need you back._

_Don’t go where I can’t follow._

_Please._

“What do you need me to do?” Ward begged. “What do you want from me?”

“Oh, Ward,” Garrett smiled. “You’ve already given me everything. Everything you’ve wanted. Everything you are.”

Ward stared at him, shaking his head, not caring that Deathlok was standing nearby to see the exhausted devastation written so clearly across his face.

Garrett’s phone rang, and he grinned at Deathlok. “It’s your handler,” he said, as amiably as if he were talking to a friend about the weather. “Yes?”

A moment later, the grin on his face twisted into a colder one. “Skye,” he said brightly, and Ward felt his stomach twist.

“Oh, Phil’s around? Great,” Garrett said cheerfully, and Ward’s stomach gave another twist.

How ironic that the tin man, accustomed to violence and war and ugliness, felt like he might vomit just by hearing names he treasured come from the mouth of a man like Garrett.

“We have a lot to catch up on,” Garrett laughed, and he heard it—her voice.

He couldn’t hear the words.

Didn’t care, really.

She was alive. She was with Coulson and May and Triplett.

She was _protected_.

“Oh, and there was something else I wanted to tell you,” Garrett said softly, and the smile on his face twisted into something darker. Angrier. *“Your scientist friends? They were brave until their last breath.”*

_Monster._

_Monster monster monster._

_The pod floats,_ Ward tried to tell himself. _I made sure we were flying low._

_I gave them a chance. I tried._

_Monster._

_Monster monster monster._

Garrett hung up the phone and turned to face Ward.

“Raina let me in on a little secret,” he said softly. “She told me that Skye was special. Just like you always knew, Ward, even if you didn’t know why.”

_I know why she’s special._

_And it has nothing to do with the monsters._

“You asked for orders, Agent Ward?” Garrett taunted. “Then take these: get. Her.”

A wave of relief— _orders, finally_ —was broadsided by the panic clawing at his chest— _not Skye not Skye not Skye_.

Relief won out.

Fifteen years of orders, and Ward had his core again. He was no longer orbiting aimlessly.

He was following orders.

Paying debts.

Saving John Garrett.

“Thank you sir,” he breathed, and then he turned on his heel.

_Skye._

_Skye._

_Skye._

He heard Garrett talking to Deathlok as he exited—thought he heart the words “he’s always been a tender heart” said condescendingly—and he blocked it out.

There could be no loss of focus, no turning back.

There could only be orders.

At least that’s what he told himself as he put a gun in his belt and left Garrett behind. It’s what he told himself as he walked through the complex towards Skye.

_This isn’t excitement you feel, this is your loyalty to Garrett._

_Your heart rate is only rising because you’ve been under pressure today._

_And whatever you do, don’t think about Battleship and the first birthday you ever celebrated and waking up in the sunlight and words that made you feel whole again._

But when he rounded the corner and saw her staring back at him, a hard sheen across her dark eyes, all fearless and desperate and angry, Grant Ward could think of nothing else.


	46. A Different Kind of Mercy

Skye was talking to the handler when he entered, his gun pointed.

It wasn’t as if he needed a gun when it came to her. There was the fact that he could easily overpower her, and they both knew it, and there was the fact that nothing would ever persuade him to pull the trigger. They both knew that, too.

Skye turned to him, darkness in her eyes, but no fear.

Not anymore.

“She won’t kill you,” Ward said callously. “She doesn’t work like that. I would know.”

“You know _nothing_ about what I am capable of,” Skye said contemptuously, her lip curling in scorn as she looked at him.

_Monster._

_Back-stabbing traitor._

_Rot in hell._

“I know that you could have let me die,” Ward said. “And I know that I’m still here. My heart’s still beating. So she won’t kill you,” he told the handler. *“Because she _hates_ me. A lot.”*

_And I don’t blame her._

_Not even a little bit._

*“I don’t hate you,”* she said, her voice still cold and contemptuous. Her words sent a jolt through his body, and he felt his hands lowering the gun just slightly, and hope coursing through his veins, and then his hands tightened on the gun again because of course, _of course_ she hated him. Why would she try to say anything different?

It wasn’t as if he deserved anything better.

“I feel sorry for you,” she said callously. “You betrayed the only people who ever cared about you. This team was the only chance you had, and you sold us out. And Fitz? Fitz was a hero, and he wanted to give you a second chance. Do you know what, Ward? We sat in our motel room and argued, and Fitz was the only one, the _only one, Ward,_ who stood up for you. Did you think about that when you killed him? Or how about all the times Jemma patched you up? Did you remember that when you killed her?”

Ward felt dread uncurling in the pit of his stomach.

_They were supposed to be alright. Bruised and battered from the fall, maybe, but alright._

_They were not supposed to be dead!_

“Fitz wanted to give you a chance,” Skye said, and he could see tears forming behind the hard, unforgiving sheen across her dark eyes. “A chance you didn’t deserve Ward.” She stepped forward, holding the backpack that contained the bomb. *“I guess some people are just born evil.”*

That was old news. He’d known that from the time he was six years old and Maynard had locked their little brother outside in the icy January weather. He’d been born for this. Born from evil, from the unspeakable barely-humans that he called his parents, born for evil. It was in his core. It always had been.

“I guess you’re right, Skye,” he said, advancing slowly. He was waiting, for Coulson or May or Trip, or whoever was waiting for him, to spring.

He wanted whatever they would inflict on him; would welcome the pain, since he had been unable to ask Garrett for that particular relief since Garrett’s near-death experience.

*“I’ve learned things about you,”* he took another step towards her. *“History. Things you might want to know. You and I? We’re not so different, Skye.”*

Skye laughed, a short, bitter laugh that sounded nothing like the light-hearted laughter of the girl he had met a lifetime ago. “Oh, as if you could be so lucky. Ward, you were never the evil I was referring to. Garrett may be evil, but you? You’re not even that. You’re nothing. You’re weak, and you always have been. The only thing your tiny, shriveled, traitorous mind can understand is _orders_ , your precious orders, and how to carry them out.”

 _Tell me something new_ , he wanted to scream at her. _Tell me something that can cut me open, because I know you have the power to, and you know it, too. Tell me something that will gut me, because all of this? It’s old news. I think I was born knowing this._

“You’re right,” he said, his voice calm. *“You woke up a weakness inside me. Skye.”* He breathed her name, hating that after all this time, just saying her name could make him feel as if the world could begin again, new and hopeful. It was just a name. *“For the first time,”* his voice shook just a little. *“I wanted something for myself.”*

Her lip curled. “Oh, you were weak long before I came anywhere near you, Ward. You were pathetic from day one.”

*“Maybe I’ll just take what I want,”* Ward said, his voice hard, hoping to god she didn’t hear the desperation behind it.

Because he wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

He had fallen in love with a person capable of making the right choices even in the middle of hell, and choice was something he would never, ever rob her of.

Perhaps that in itself was his greatest weakness.

And then he saw her. The Calvary, positioned in what was supposed to be just out of sight. But he was Grant Ward, and he had been trained since childhood to spot threats and eliminate them.

Only this time, he had no desire to eliminate the threat.

_I’m glad it’s her._

_She won’t try to talk to me. She won’t say anything. And she won’t have mercy, because if there’s anyone in this room who understands that I don’t deserve it, it’s her._

And because he wanted this—wanted to find the release in pain that Garrett would no longer give him—he goaded her by pushing her weak spots. As far as he was concerned, Melinda May had four pressure points. Two of them he had pushed off a plane, one of them was probably on his way there as they spoke, and one of them… well, one of them was standing right in front of him.

“There is darkness inside of you, Skye,” he goaded, not sure if it was May or Skye he was trying to egg on. “Shall we see what happens when I wake it?”

“If you think you can scare me, Grant Ward, you can think again,” Skye said, stepping forward until she was inches from his face.

“Oh, don’t bother pretending you’ll blow the place,” he said sarcastically, leaning in until he was nearly touching her.

“I don’t need a bomb,” Skye said, smiling calmly. “I have a weapon that will _destroy_ you.”

“Is that so?” Any second, May was going to take him out.

It was fitting that it should end this way—if Garrett didn’t need him, then he could let these two have their revenge.

“Yep,” Skye said with a false brightness that nearly broke his heart. *“You slept with her, and she’s _really_ pissed off.”*

May blindsided him, and even though he knew she was coming, she was fast.

He fought back—of course he fought back—because if he surrendered, she wouldn’t hurt him, not really, and most of all, if he surrendered, it would mean facing Coulson and an injured FitzSimmons.

And he didn’t think he could face Coulson.

Coulson, who had given him a home; Coulson, who had risked everything to extract him and Fitz when S.H.I.E.L.D. was ready to dump their asses on the Georgian border; Coulson, who had really believed that people could be saved from themselves. Coulson, who had called him son…

May threw him through the door, and Ward relished every bit of it—the adrenaline of the fight, the hatred in her eyes, each bruise and scratch that felt like release.

What he didn’t anticipate was the saw she grabbed from the wall, and for half a second he imagined it—the silence that would follow when it was all over and his blood had been spilled to atone for everything he had done.

It would be a good silence, he imagined.

A well-earned one.

But not before punishment had been meted out, and Ward was determined that May would be angry enough to kill him before the end. He flipped her through the air, wrapping his cord around her neck.

“And here I thought the Calvary didn’t take these things personal,” he taunted, and he could physically feel the wrath surging through her body. “But I guess the little ice queen got her feelings hurt.”

She threw him off of her, and Ward felt a rib crack as the wall folded behind his body. He smiled grimly, spinning so that his kick hit her in the gut.

She stumbled, and he grabbed her by the hair, hurling her against the wall.

She had no idea how much he could take, and if she thought a few cracked ribs and some bruises and scratches was anything that could be remotely considered pain, she could think again.

He goaded her again—hurling insults at her as he kicked—waiting for Coulson to show up and blow a hole through his head, waiting for Skye to rush in with some new trick, waiting for May to find a new way to cause him pain.

 _Do it, do it, do it_ , he wanted to scream. _If I’m going to die, then give me what I’m due first._

_It’s what I am._

_A soldier who has earned his wages in pain._

_So pay me, Melinda May._

_Pay me._

She paid him with a nail gun, four times in his foot, and a punch to the head.

He had looked up at her and raised his hands, laughing mockingly despite the nails in his feet, because this pain was its own kind of mercy.

It was a pain he deserved, but there was no amount of blood that could wash out everything he had done.

_Kill me and be done._

_These are my wages, and I am here to take what I have earned._

There was no mercy in Melinda May’s face, but there was no murder there, either, and the idea that he might have to live through this—might have to live after all this—had not occurred to him until know.

She hit him hard just below the throat, and Ward relished the pain.

He couldn’t speak—could hardly breathe, in fact—for the pain, but his lips twisted into a broken smile as she wound up for her final kick.

She was swift and sure, and the last thing he saw before everything went black was Melinda May’s foot aimed directly for his face.

_And somewhere beyond the land of the conscious, Grant Ward knew he had been robbed of his voice and his subconscious relaxed._

_He was right._

_It was a good silence, after all._

_A deserved one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All dialogue pieces surrounded by ** are based on the lines from the AoS finale and do not belong to me. As always, all characters belong to Marvel.


	47. Afterwards

He was glad that they didn’t show mercy when they woke him.

They ripped the nails out of his feet, and he didn’t make a sound, just gritted his teeth and bore it, survived it as he always did.  

Garrett would have been proud.

And when one of the soldiers dragging him to his feet told him the news—told him that Garrett had fallen—he couldn’t believe it.

He didn’t know if it was grief he felt.

In fact, he wasn’t sure if he felt anything, really.

Just numb, cold despair.

He was the one who was supposed to die—he was the one who deserved to.

And Garrett, Garrett who had forged him, Garrett who had made him, Garrett who had _saved_ him… he was lying dead somewhere on the complex. He had feared nothing more than death, and Ward hadn’t even been there.  

He must have been so, so afraid… and Ward had left him to face it all alone.

May and the soldier led him out past the long box containing Garrett’s body, and Ward almost collapsed. The soldiers dragged him to his feet again, thinking it was pain from the nail scars in his feet, but it wasn’t—it was seeing Garrett lying there dead.

_John Garrett._

_Savior, friend, mentor._

_Father._

_Oh, Ward, you fool, you fool._

_You have been trying to be his son since the day he saved you._

He was breaking breaking breaking into a hundred thousand pieces—

Because what life was there for him without John Garrett?

There was no one left to save. It had all been for nothing, and now what was he? A husk, a shell, a shadow. Nothing.

He felt so much—so much and nothing at the same time. He wanted to scream, wanted to shout, wanted to tell someone why he had done the things he’d done, wanted to talk to someone, tell Coulson where the kids were, tell Skye that she had to stay away from Raina.

Ironically enough, he couldn’t speak without intense pain. May hadn’t fractured his larynx as she had thought, but she had bruised it sufficiently so that speaking would be hoarse and at a high cost.

He had no voice. Nailed down, powerless, and then even his ability to speak had been stripped from.

And he deserved it.

They brought him before Coulson, and Ward forced himself to stand straight, through the pain, and look straight into Coulson’s eyes.

It was anger he saw there, deep-set anger, and something else, too. Disappointment.

Sorrow, even.

And no mercy.

 _Good_ , Ward thought. _Mercy was only ever a lie._

_They always walk away when they see you for who you really are, kid._

Garrett had told him that years ago, and it had proved true every single time.

“Your ruthless attempt to kill two members of my team failed,” Coulson said harshly, and Ward stared at him blankly through his blackened eyes.

_Good._

_Good._

_It was supposed to._

_The goddamn pod floats, after all._

“But Fitz,” Coulson said, and Ward felt dread coursing through his veins at Coulson’s tone. “He’s never going to be the same again.”

_Fitz?_

“You sank two people I care about to the bottom of the ocean, Ward,” Coulson said harshly. “And that’s unforgivable.”

_Of course it was._

Even if he had the ability to speak, Ward wouldn’t have defended himself. Wouldn’t have told them that he had tried to give Fitz and Simmons a way out. At least they had the satisfaction of having someone to hate, because there was no question he deserved it.

And _Fitz_ , goddamnit it. He needed to be okay.

With sudden, painful clarity, Ward remembered their mission together.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had sent them in to disable the Overkill device, and then ditched them with no extraction plan. Fitz had brought nothing but a sandwich and an EMP, and he had gained the trust of everyone along the border in every way Ward had failed, and then he had fallen asleep beside Ward and snored the whole night.

It was the moment Ward realized he would do anything necessary to fulfill his promise to Coulson and protect the kid, regardless of the outcome of the mission S.H.I.E.L.D. had thrown at them. He had told Fitz to run and let him finish the mission, and then Fitz had broken his heart.

He had stood their stubbornly, shaking his head and looking up at Ward with eyes that had an unexpected ferocity.

“I’m not leaving,” he had said, and Ward had just stared at him in confusion. _Not leaving_ didn’t make sense. _Running for your life no matter the cost_ , that made sense. _Leaving because there would be no way out alive later_ , that made sense, too. “I made my own promises, too,” Fitz had said firmly. “I promised Coulson I would take care of you, too.”

“Fitz,” he whispered, the word tearing his body in two. It was nothing but a hoarse whisper, and neither May or Coulson heard.

_Fitz, please._

_Please be okay._

“I plan to *invent new ways to ruin the rest of your life,”* Coulson said, with that terrifyingly calm demeanor Ward had seen him use before on people like Ian Quinn. *“And we’ll do whatever is necessary to get Hydra intel from you. But your torture? It’s going to be internal.”*

_Oh, Coulson._

_If only you knew._

“A little bit external, too,” May interjected, and Coulson smiled sardonically, nodding.

*“But you devoted your life to a deranged narcissist who never gave a damn about anyone,”* Coulson continued, and Ward wanted to step back, to scream, to run, to hear anything but this because Garrett had cared for him he had he had—

“And now he’s dead.”

The words crashed into Ward with absurdly terrifying finality, worse than the sight of the broken body in the other room, worse than anything Ward had ever experienced…

 “And you, Grant Ward,” Coulson said fiercely. “You have the rest of your miserable life to wrestle with all the questions he left for you. And do you know what the first one will be, Ward? Who are you without him?”

_Oh, but you don’t understand. I already know the answer to that._

_Nothing._

_Worthless._

_Piece-of-shit kid._

_Going nowhere._

_Weak._

_Helpless._

_Pathetic._

_I have always known who I would be if John Garrett left. Why do you think I fought so hard to save him? Why do you think I survived all those years?_

As the walls of the prison closed around him, he said their names aloud in his mind; the names of the people who had compromised him so much he had almost believed once that he could be saved:

_Melinda May._

_Phil Coulson._

_Jemma Simmons._

_Leo Fitz._

_Skye._

And as the gray despair of an empty future threatened to swallow Grant Ward whole, it was one thought that sustained him:

Garrett had trained him well, for the day when all hope ran out and he needed a failsafe; if torture became too much for him and he needed a way out. If life became unbearable—in a situation like this, Garrett had told him—if he couldn’t go on living, at least he knew how to die. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: For all of the lovely people who have been begging for a redemption story, you're going to get one. I promise. I will be continuing this fic in my post-finale headcanon, but I'm thinking of taking a short break this weekend to take care of some things in my own life. Thanks for the kudos and comments, my friends-- it helps me keep writing. I love you all! (:


	48. Beating Heart

**_*Warning: major trigger material, for suicide, depression, and self-harm. I’m not advocating any of those things, and I don’t want to trigger you or make you feel unsafe, so please skip this chapter if any of that is a trigger for you!*_ **

 

Grant Ward took his chance late in the afternoon, three days after he’d arrived at the prison.

He thought about using the sheet on his cot, but the thought of the rope burns—burns he had felt before, in Maynard’s hands or in Garrett’s—was worse, far worse, than the thought of death.

He even thought about hitting one of the guards, who he knew had orders to use lethal force if necessary.

But in the end, he decided that he would be the one responsible for his final action.

If he had had no agency over his life, at least he would have agency in death.

Ward had learned early on that anything could be a weapon, and almost anything could be a _sharp_ weapon with enough creative thinking.

His wrists were the easy choice, but that would still mean bleeding.

It was a key—not even a whole key, just a fragment of metal that had been on the floor as he neared his cell.

He had sharpened it slowly, scraping it against the door of his cell until it as a slim, lethal blade.

He turned the blade towards his heart, slowly, his hands steady and his heart rate slow and even.

So this is how it ends.

Not with gunshots or noise or explosions, not defending Garrett or defending the team, not in pursuit of something bigger than himself.

Death. Ending.

Strangely enough, he did not fear it.

It was his final wages; this inglorious death: just him, alone in a cell with the silence of oblivion echoing in his ears.

He pushed the blade against his skin, saw the pinprick of blood appear.

His heartbeat was steady under his fingers, and then, like the sun shining into the deepest, darkest well, the realization hit him.

_Skye._

His heart was beating because Skye had brought him back.

His heart was beating, and it was not his choice to stop it again.

And in doing so, she had bound him here until she decided his heart should stop again.

Ward dropped the small blade with a clatter, and fell to the floor beside it.

The door swung open, and three guards entered.

One grabbed the blade from the ground—they had obviously been watching footage of his struggle—and another kicked him in the ribs where he lay.

“Get him up,” the third snarled. “It’s time for interrogation.”

They dragged him through the door, and Ward didn’t fight them.

Didn’t even think of fighting them.

It wasn’t Coulson or anyone from SHIELD interrogating him, of course, it was someone most likely from the US military, or even perhaps, one of their many intelligence networks. It meant they were merciless, of course, but Ward didn’t care.

Because what was the difference really? He had delayed hell for a chance in purgatory, because a girl with dark eyes and no last name had said that no, his heart must not stop beating.

So during interrogation, when he couldn’t hear their questions, couldn’t understand what they were asking, Ward stared, unfocused, straight ahead, thinking nothing but that no matter what they did, that steady _thump, thump, thump_ under his ribcage must continue.

And when they did not receive their answers, because Ward was nearing unconsciousness, and they pushed past any pain level he had yet experienced, he didn’t scream answers, because he didn’t _know_ answers.

He screamed her name there, in the gray dungeon beyond the fading light of hope, and welcomed the black of unconsciousness that followed.


	49. Voiceless

After the attempt, Grant Ward did not speak for six months.

His larynx healed in three, but the torture and the interrogation that happened on his third night there had fractured something indefinable inside him. He had screamed during the interrogation because it would have been impossible _not_ to scream under pain of that intensity, and that had, of course, made his body feel as if it was splitting down the crack in his larynx.

Regardless, that was the last day he made any kind of noise at all.

Some days he couldn’t remember the Hydra intel he had known, but even on the days he can, even on the days he wants to spill it all if it means something that would keep Skye safe, he can’t.

His voice was gone, ripped from his throat when May had nailed him to the floor. When Coulson had stood before him, accusation and hurt and anger written across his face. When he had heard the unthinkable news about Fitz.

Ward’s very lips felt heavy, as if it was too much of an effort to open his mouth, let alone speak.

Some days there were new interrogators, and some days they just let his body rest.

Ward couldn’t bring himself to care.

On most days, he would sit on his cot and stare numbly forward.

The memories pressed in on him here, but he thought of them with a detachment that scared him.

He thought of Maynard, often, and wondered where he was.

Long ago, Garrett had promised that he could return and exact revenge for himself and his younger brother, after their quest to save Garrett’s life was complete. He had never had the chance, of course. Didn’t even know if that was what he wanted anymore.

When had revenge on Maynard ceased to be the be-all, end-all in Ward’s life?

When had Garrett begun to truly eclipse everything else in Ward’s life?

Whenever he thought of Garrett, Ward wanted to scream; scream for the loss. So much loss. He had lost his savior, his mentor, his father, his friend.

But long ago, he had also lost his life into an unrepayable debt, and it had robbed him of any chance of a good life. A normal life.

No, Ward had done that much himself. He had robbed himself, he had fucked up since he had been that little piece-of-shit kid who didn’t have the guts to rescue his own little brother. He had brought this all on himself since that day at the well, and that was its own kind of loss.

Some days, Ward didn’t know which he should mourn the most.

The loss of his rescuer or the loss of his chance at a decent life.

Those days, Ward curled onto his cot—they had taken away his sheet after that first attempt on his own life—and lay there, shaking and silent.

Always silent.

On other days, Ward’s mind, so used to critical thought and action—maintaining a cover, maintaining his fluency in six languages, and being a strategist and specialist for two opposing sides at once had meant his mind had been constantly in motion—would race. He would obsessively count the days, hours, minutes he had been in prison, and then do the same for the time he had been with the team, and then for Garrett.

He would pace on these days—three steps by two steps, three steps by two steps, three steps by two steps—and he assumed he was always being monitored, because the interrogators considered him more lucid on these days.

They always came for him on those days, but they didn’t know his secret:

Pain was the only thing that could distance him from the chaos of his own mind, and he welcomed it each time; welcomes the way the pain erased everything about himself he detested: his weakness, his grief, his longing… his thoughts of his team.

One day as he neared the end of his six months in prison, things changed abruptly.

The interrogators still came for him, but this time they didn’t lay a hand on him.

Of course, Ward still didn’t answer their questions. He went through the sessions numbly, staring straight ahead, unhearing and barely seeing. His lips stayed shut.

Ward didn’t know if he could open them anymore, even if he wanted to.

But the abrupt absence of forceful persuasion, as they had called it—Garrett had always called it asking without your ballroom manners—wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

When he came back from one interrogation, there was a blanket lying on his cot—a thin blanket, but a blanket nonetheless.

He didn’t shiver when he slept anymore, not that he slept much to begin with.

He didn’t go days without food anymore, either—now meals were delivered regularly, and regardless of Ward’s apathy towards his own health, at least he had the opportunity to eat if he was hungry.

“Get up,” a guard said harshly on the last day of his sixth month there.

Ward stayed where he was, curled under his blanket.

One guard kicked him in the ribs—this was as far as any of them had laid a hand on him recently, and Ward didn’t bother to wonder or care, really. What was one more kick in the ribs? He had the ghosts of a hundred old beatings clinging to that rib cage, and his ribs had broken too many times for him to count.

Mostly it had been Garrett, of course, though he had gone for Ward’s ribs only because S.H.I.E.L.D. would have noticed if a recruit had a bruised face that didn’t come from an op.

“Get him,” one of the guards said, and another dragged him to his feet.

Ward didn’t fight back, but he didn’t cooperate, either, just let them shove him roughly down the dim, narrow hall.

They pushed him into his usual interrogation room.

It was a small gray box of a room—or it had been gray, once upon a time. There were darker stains, too… bloodstains. Some of them his own.

Ward didn’t look up, just let them shove him into his seat as usual.

He did not speak.

“Ward.”

It was the first time anyone had said his name since he’d been taken into custody, and Ward lifted his head slightly, and then jumped a little.

Instead of his usual team of interrogators, it was Coulson standing before him.

“They tell me you haven’t spoken for six months,” he said calmly, his arms crossed as he looked down at Ward. “I asked them what methods they’d used to make you.” Coulson’s eyes flitted to the dark stains on the floor, and Ward saw a hint of sadness at the back of his expression. “I guess I got my answer.”

Ward looked down at the table in front of him and his cuffed hands. His wrists were nearly raw, he realized detachedly. He hadn’t bothered surveying the damage before, but for some reason, Coulson’s gaze made him suddenly aware of it.

“I didn’t know,” Coulson said quietly. “I ordered them to stop the torture.”

Ward’s head jerked up in surprise.

 Coulson’s face was still hard, but his eyes were dark with sadness. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said coolly. “I haven’t forgot my promise to invent new ways to wreck your life, Ward. I’m just not the kind of man who believes in torture.”

Ward wanted to open his mouth and say it didn’t really matter either way, he didn’t mind, but now that he had no orders to follow and no cover to play, Ward didn’t think he had a voice to speak with.

“You’re a duplicitous scum bag, Ward, but I don’t want to be responsible for torture,” Coulson said, his voice still calm. “And I know it won’t work with you anyway. I don’t even think you know much Hydra secrets. You just blindly followed our favorite two-faced dirtbag, John Garrett, no questions.”

 _Not quite true_ , Ward thought. _I had a hundred questions._

_And he was always the answer. To all of them._

“Fitz still hasn’t woken up,” Coulson said unexpectedly, and Ward jerked in his bonds. “He’s in stasis while they try to salvage what they can of his brain and his memories. I thought you should know.”

_Goddamnit Fitz._

_You need to wake up._

_You were never supposed to get hurt._

_It was supposed to float it was supposed to fucking float…_

Not that his intentions mattered, he supposed. He had done what he had done, and there was no getting around his actions.

_But Fitz had to be okay. He deserved to be okay._

Coulson stared at him for a long moment, and then he turned to go. “I wouldn’t have found out, you know,” he said over his shoulder, as if it were an afterthought. “About what they were doing to you. If it wasn’t for her.”

 _Her_.

Of course.

“She cracked their feeds three days ago, and she watched the footage,” he said slowly, as if each word was painful for him. Ward could only imagine what the violent footage had done to her, and he cringed inwardly. “All of it, Ward. She watched all of it. From what they did to you on your third day up until a few days ago. I wish I could have stopped her, but she watched it alone, and when she came to find me, she demanded that I stop what was going on. You may have royally fucked up, Ward, but even at your best you wouldn’t have deserved someone like her. She can look at a backstabbing traitor and still have the courage to show mercy.”

Ward heard all of it, barely uncomprehending.

“Maybe you never cared about her,” Coulson continued. “I think you’d like to believe that, but I can’t. You followed the wrong person, Ward, but I think in some twisted way you believed she was important. So if that’s true, Ward, any intel you know might keep her safe. And she’s a daring one, Ward, you know that, and I guarantee she’ll be in the thick of whatever mission we participate in, so Ward? Any intel you have might just save her life.”

Ward hadn’t had a voice for six months—or perhaps he never had; it didn’t matter anymore, either way—but suddenly, unexpectedly, Coulson’s words woke something in Ward.

He didn’t know how, but the weight sealing his lips lightened slightly, and Ward did the unthinkable:

He opened his mouth to speak.

His voice cracked, sounding rusty and awkward from lack of use, but when he spoke, it was his own voice for the very first time. When he spoke, it was just one word.

“ _Skye_.”


	50. The Visit

Finding his voice again was a slow process.

Agonizingly slow.

It was better, now, though, that he had Coulson’s visits to look forward to.

He still didn’t speak to anyone else. It wasn’t a conscious choice, really; it was just that he had nothing to say to the guards or the interrogators. When he looked at them, all their faces looked the same: like Garrett, uninterested in his words, his voice.

Coulson, on the other hand, with his still very-present anger and hurt, with his knowing eyes, with that unthinkable compassion buried somewhere behind it…Coulson he could talk to.

Coulson visited about once or twice a month, with new questions about Hydra, and no news about Fitz.

Ward didn’t dare ask; didn’t dare say anything other than answer Coulson’s questions the best he could.

Still, the visits gave him something to think about other than Garrett and a lifetime of hell.

Seeing Coulson made him think of his days on the Bus, though, and some days Ward didn’t know if that was good or bad.

It was three months since Coulson had ordered them to stop the torture, nine since the day Garrett had died, and Ward was learning to cope with prison life.

It wasn’t so bad, really.

No more lies to tell, no more triggers to pull.

Just silence, mostly.

Ward had feared silence in the past; feared having no orders and no one else’s words to erase everything he saw and hated in himself. In here though, in the long, silent days, Ward was learning how to speak for the first time.

His cracked ribs were healing—other than his time on the Bus, these nine months in prison were the longest Ward had ever gone without at least a bruise or two from Garrett. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that—when he had been on the Bus, at least, he had been distracted enough that he didn’t miss the release that came with what Garrett did to him.

Coulson visited him on one particularly gray day. His face was hard and cold when the guards shoved Ward through the door to the interrogation room.

“Do you remember what I told you about Fitz?”

Ward’s head shot up, his fists clenching in his handcuffs, and then he nodded slowly.

“I wasn’t exactly truthful,” Coulson said calmly, and Ward felt his heart jump.

_Oh, God. Fitz._

_You have to be alright you have to—_

“He woke up months ago,” Coulson continued, and Ward let out his breath in a whoosh before he even realized he’d been holding it. “He’s not the same. He won’t ever be the same.”

Coulson stopped, and for the first time since Coulson had started visiting, Ward sought out information instead of giving answers.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice hoarse and rough-edged from lack of use. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, after you sent him to the bottom of the ocean,” Coulson said sharply, and Ward felt his whole body flinch involuntarily in protest at the thought.

_Not Fitz not Fitz not Fitz. He was never supposed to get hurt._

“He was deprived of oxygen for too long,” Coulson said. “He barely survived, but Simmons held them both up. I still don’t know how she did it. She’s fierce, that one.” There was a hint of pride in his voice, and for half a moment Ward was tempted to smile as he thought of Skye calling him and May “mom and dad.”

The smile died before it reached his lips, because Skye and her laughter and her dark eyes were lights that were too far removed from his life to even think about.

“Short term memory loss?” Ward questioned. “Or is it worse?”

“He lost about three months’ worth of memories,” Coulson told him. “Which considering what he went through, we were lucky. That isn’t the hard part, though. When it comes to his science, it’s harder for him to focus. He’s just as bright as ever, but it’s become much harder for him to put his thoughts together. He’s had a rough nine months.”

Ward’s shoulders hunched, and then he opened his mouth. “I know—I know this changes nothing,” he began slowly, and Coulson’s eyes narrowed as he looked at him. “I’m despicable, and you know it. But Fitz and Simmons—Fitz”—

His voice broke, and he stared at his hands. Coulson was watching him, his gaze fixed and unreadable.

“The pod was supposed to float,” he said. He didn’t know why it was important that Coulson knew that. He knew it didn’t change anything, didn’t make it any better, but he had to say it. Had to tell someone. “I… I read the safety manual. After Skye…after she saved my life when we had the 0-8-4 on board after Peru. We were flying low enough. I set the plane myself. But the pod… it was never supposed to sink.”

Coulson was shaking his head, his face twisting with sadness. “No,” he said. “Don’t try to play on my emotions, Ward. I won’t be taken in again.”

Ward looked down at his cuffed hands again, his shoulders hunching.

Why had he said anything? Why did it matter? Why had he even tried to explain?

“Fitz is here,” Coulson said unexpectedly, and Ward looked up at him again, his eyes widening. “He doesn’t remember you dropping him into the ocean,” he said, his voice harsh. “He says the last thing he remembers is your mission together. You were going to stay behind when there was no extraction plan, and let him try to get to safety before the S.H.I.E.L.D. drones came in. He says that’s the Grant Ward you really are.”

Ward didn’t bother to hide the tears welling at the back of his eyes, and he shook his head, staring up at Coulson. “Don’t let him in here,” he said adamantly, fighting to keep the emotion out of his voice. “I’m not that Grant Ward.”

“He says you could be,” Coulson said, crossing his arms. “No one in their right mind would want to give you a second chance, Ward. I certainly don’t. People like Fitz are rare gifts, and you nearly destroyed him.”

Ward was actually crying now—actual goddamn tears spilling over his eyes and _fuck_ he was trying to claw them off his face, he was such a goddamn mess—

“Please,” he begged. “ _Please_. Don’t let Fitz come near me.”

Coulson looked at him for a long moment, his face impassive. “You don’t deserve to see him,” he said. “But he wants to see you, and I think he deserves that choice.”

“No,” Ward said. “You know better. You _should_ know better. Keep him far away from me. Keep them all far away from me. I destroy everything good that comes in contact with me, Agent Coulson. I don’t think you want to risk your team”—

“Stop.” Coulson held up his hand. “Stop your victim game. The destruction you caused? You make it sound like everything you did was ruined just because you were there. No, Ward, you made choices. You made stupid-ass choices.”

_But I’m ruined. I’ve always been ruined. You don’t understand._

“I do understand,” Coulson said sharply, as if he somehow guessed what Ward had been thinking. “I understand more than you think, Ward.”

“I have made choices,” Ward said slowly, lifting his head and staring at Coulson straight in the eye this time. “I made choices that ruined Fitz’s life, so _please_ , if you value him, don’t let him near me.”

Coulson straightened, his face filled with sadness suddenly. “I do value him,” he said softly. “And I value his choice.”

He turned on his heel, and disappeared through the open door, leaving Ward alone with his thoughts and his longing and his cruel, cruel memories.


	51. Chances

_When Coulson looked down at Ward, the look of hope, intermingled with and overshadowed by so much grief and guilt and regret, was enough to make him stop and wonder; wonder how long it had been since the kid had had any hope at all._

_Skye was outside the interrogation room, watching, and Triplett and Fitz were there, too._

_He wondered what Triplett was thinking; if Triplett would have ever been tempted by Garrett the same way Ward had. Of course, Triplett had been much less vulnerable before he joined S.H.I.E.L.D. The grandson of a Howling Commando would never lack for caregivers or safe places to crash._

_Ward, on the other hand, had never known safety._

_When Coulson stepped out of the interrogation room, Skye looked up at him tearfully._

_“I’m not supposed to pity him,” she said fiercely. “I’m not supposed to feel anything for him.”_

_Coulson put a hand on her shoulder._

_“It’s what makes us human, Skye,” he said gently. “Caring. Compassion.”_

_“Second chances,” Fitz said, crossing his arms. “L-listen, I was the one who a-almost died.” He had come back from near death with a difficulty with speech that he was nowhere near close to overcoming. “I’d say if I can give him a s-second chance, you should, too. Can I see him now? Please?”_

_Coulson sighed. “You heard what he said, Fitz.”_

_“He does want to see me,” Fitz said boldly, speaking without difficulty for the first time. “He’s afraid. He’s so, so scared. I don’t understand why you don’t see it, Coulson.”_

_“You sure you’re gonna be okay?” Triplett asked quietly, and Fitz lifted his chin._

_“Of course I am,” he said confidently. “Now can I p-please see him?”_

_Coulson opened the door, and Fitz entered._

_Ward looked up, his eyes wild with pain and regret and fear._

_Fitz had been right about the fear._

_Ward opened his mouth and then shut it again._

_“Leave us alone,” Fitz said firmly, again without wavering. “I want to speak with Agent Ward.”_

_Coulson nodded reluctantly. “I’ll be right outside,” he told Fitz softly, and then turned to Ward. “And I don’t give a damn if you’re handcuffed, if I think you’re going to try anything, I’ll put a bullet in you myself.”_


	52. Fitz

Fitz stood awkwardly in the door for a moment, staring at him. Finally, he ran a hand through his curly hair, and opened his mouth. “Um, hello, Agent Ward.”

Ward said nothing for a long moment. “I’m glad you’re alive,” he said finally, and then winced at his own words. He had no right to speak them, especially not to Fitz.

“Me too,” Fitz laughed, dropping into the seat across from him. “So Agent Coulson told you what I remember?”

“He said your last memory was our mission,” Ward said quietly, looking down at the floor.

“They needed a guy like you and a guy like me,” Fitz grinned. “You destroyed the world’s most dangerous sandwich, the one with Simmons’ special aioli on it. Do you remember that? I suppose it was a long time ago for you.”

“Ages,” Ward said.

“I didn’t believe what they said about you, you know,” Fitz said suddenly, and Ward looked at him briefly. There were tears shining in his eyes.

“You should,” Ward said abruptly. “You should believe all of it. I’m not a good man. I never was.”

“I don’t believe that,” Fitz shook his head. “You jumped out of a plane to save Jemma. You gave me your rations when I was hungry—though mind you, you did destroy my bloody sandwich first. And you were going to let me run even though you thought you might die.”

“I was trying to gain your trust,” Ward lied cruelly. “It didn’t mean anything.”

_It meant hope and safety and a little brother who had promised to stick around. To take care of him. It meant everything._

_But Ward had fucked up enough in his short life, and he was determined that if he could do nothing to atone for his sins, he would at least do this one decent thing: make sure Fitz stayed far, far away from him._

Fitz just looked at him, a small smile on his face. “Oh, Ward,” he said lightly, that familiar accent nearly shattering Ward. “You’re not fooling anybody.”

“I’m good at fooling people,” Ward said brutally. “That’s my job.”

“You’re not f-fooling me,” Fitz said, and Ward realized suddenly what Coulson had meant about having difficulty communicating. “You’re trying to push me away, and you’re trying to save me from yourself, but you can’t get rid of me that easily, Ward. You may have gotten rid of the most dangerous sandwich of all time—and the best damn aioli to ever exist—but you won’t be getting rid of me.”

Ward said nothing.

“Earth to Agent Ward,” Fitz said. “Or do you answer better to one of Skye’s nicknames. Like Robot? Or Tin Man?” Fitz grinned, and the sight seemed so out of place in the interrogation room.

Ward tried to smile, for Fitz’s sake, though the memory was painful. It took a long moment to realize that he couldn’t. It was as if his lips couldn’t even remember how to form one.

Fitz’s face sobered. “Listen, Ward, I know you’re—you’re having a hard time,” he said quietly, his young face wrinkled with a concern that tore Ward’s heart in two. “And I’m going to be back as often as I can. Coulson wouldn’t let me bring a board game today, but I have to stick around this area for the next few weeks, anyway, for my—m-my”—Fitz broke off, frustrated at his inability to control his words.

Fitz’s face twisted with frustration and embarrassment, and—

“It’s okay,” Ward said softly, before he thought better of it, and then he jerked his gaze back to his hands. “Take your time.”

Fitz sighed. “Everyone’s being _too_ nice,” he complained. “Especially _Simmons_. And Skye, of course. Those girls.” He looked at Ward, shaking his head as if he expected a response full of manly solidarity, and Ward felt his lips twist into the tiniest of smiles.

“Anyway, I’m going to be around for the next m-month,” he continued. “And I’m going to visit you as often as I can. When Coulson goes back to the Bus”—

“They’re leaving you around here?” Ward sat straight up, anger and concern flooding him in equal parts.

Fitz laughed. “Well, not _here_ , obviously,” he said. “There’s a base I’ll be staying at, with a speech therapist and some doctors who think they can help me get my memories back.”

Ward swallowed hard, and Fitz stood.

“Coulson’s going to kill me if I take any more time,” Fitz said. “Well, actually, he’ll just stand around looking mildly disapproving, because he isn’t over the fact that I almost died.”

Ward didn’t know if he should be laughing or crying.

“You shouldn’t come back,” he said roughly. “You should listen to Coulson.”

Fitz just grinned. “Nope,” he said cheerfully. “Agent Ward, you’re my friend.”

“You were never mine.”

_Stay away from me. Please. Get better, tell Jemma once and for all that you love her, goddamnit, and stay away. Live a good life, Fitz._

Fitz’s face fell slightly. “You don’t mean that,” he said. “And I… I may not remember everything that happened, but I—I saw some footage of what Garrett did. To you. What you asked him to do.”

Ward jerked back so hard he nearly fell from the interrogation chair. _They weren’t supposed to have that footage._

“I wasn’t supposed to see it,” Fitz confessed. “And if Coulson’s watching us now, he’s really going to be pissed at me. But… Ward. You didn’t deserve any of that.” Fitz’s voice was thick with emotion. “I don’t care what they say you did. You’re our friend, and you’re a good man.”

“No,” Ward said adamantly. “I’m not a good man. I did all the terrible things they said. I followed Garrett”—

“That wasn’t f-following, Ward, that was—that was”—Fitz’s voice broke, and Ward stared at him in amazement. “What Garrett did to you wasn’t your fault.”

He had asked Garrett for the beatings. It didn’t concern him, and it shouldn’t concern Fitz. He was used to it, and it was all the same—Maynard or Garrett or May in their last fight. They had all nailed him to the floor, all robbed him of his voice, but it wasn’t just that. In one way or another, he had asked for it every single time.

“What _I_ did was my fault,” Ward said firmly. “And you can’t keep defending me, Fitz. I made my choices.”

“No,” Fitz said firmly. “I’m not going to stop defending you, Agent Ward, even from yourself. Coulson told me once that you can save someone from themselves if you get to them soon enough.”

“It’s too late, Fitz,” Ward said gently. “Please, _please_ accept that. And then go, and don’t look back.”

Fitz shook his head. “I believe in you,” he said simply, and his words left Ward breathless.

Ward stared at him, mouth hanging slightly open.

“I believe in you,” Fitz repeated. “And I’m not going to let you rot in here alone. I’ll be back tomorrow, but I have a question for you, Ward.”

“What is it?” Ward asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“Do you think nearly dying will make someone feel sorry enough for me that they’ll get me a monkey?”

Ward did smile this time, his lips twisting into position without being asked. It almost felt like hope. 


	53. Clues

When Ward was brought back to his cell after Fitz’s visit, he spent a long night tossing and turning, struggling to fall asleep.

When he did finally fall into a restless sleep, his dreams were chaotic and twisting.

_He had orders again._

_A trigger to pull._

_“Cross them off,” Garrett leered, and his face twisted and contorted until it was no longer human—until it was some mutated form of his old self, with a little of Maynard shining through his eyes, but mostly monster. “And this time do it right, you useless shit. No more giving them a way out, Ward. Pull. The. Trigger.”_

_Ward raised the gun, and Fitz was screaming, begging, his eyes desperate, but sad, too, as if they understood, and Ward couldn’t do it…_

_He turned the gun towards Garrett, and then Garrett just leaned back his head and laughed, and his face morphed and twisted again, and suddenly it was Skye staring at him across the barrel of his gun._

_Garrett’s laughter filled his mind, and he twisted, finding Garrett standing behind him, one gun pointed at Skye and the other Fitz._

_“Cross them off,” Garrett said. “I saved you, kid… you owe me this one.”_

Ward woke to the sound of his own screaming before he had the chance to make his choice. His body was bathed in a cold sweat, and he was shaking from head to foot.

Slowly, he stood, clenching his fists to still the tremors in his hands. He turned and paced around the cell, three steps by two steps, trying to cling to what remained of his sanity.

_Would I have done it?_

_Or maybe I already did. Maybe releasing that pod was the same thing._

_Maybe I don’t have a choice left to make, because maybe I already made it._

Ward paced until morning, when the guards came to take him to the prison showers—a slimy, dark box of a room, where each man received five minutes of cold water.

He was grateful, though, today, for the sharp cold on his skin, calling him back from the world of dreams. Although perhaps this life was just as much of a nightmare.

A few hours later, a guard unexpectedly opened his door again. “Up,” he said. “You have a visitor.”

Ward scrambled to his feet.

Coulson again?

When he reached the interrogation room, he found Fitz waiting, bouncing eagerly on his heels, a box in his hand.

Ward stepped back involuntarily, but the guard shoved him forward into his chair and cuffed one hand to the ring at the center of the table as he always did.

“What the hell?” Ward asked roughly, and Fitz grinned as if this was meant as encouragement.

“I told you I was going to visit you, Agent Ward,” Fitz said brightly, and then held out his box. “I know you like board games, so I brought this.”

He held up a board game—was that _Clue_?

“You brought a fucking board game into a high-security prison?” Ward asked incredulously.

Fitz nodded proudly. “Well, it must get p-pretty boring in here,” he said. “And the guards didn’t seem to mind. Besides, I know you like board games”—

“My _cover_ liked board games,” Ward said harshly.

Fitz had to leave him alone. Had to recover.

There was no way in hell Ward was going to take Fitz down with him, not this time.

“Yea, well your _cover_ was too damn good at Scrabble to be bluffing, Agent Ward,” Fitz said, un-phased by Ward’s sharp words. “Who did you play it with?”

“My gram and my little brother,” Ward said before he thought better of it, and then he scowled darkly. “And I don’t want to play a fucking board game, Fitz. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

Fitz rolled his eyes. “I’m _here_ because I’m doing research at the base, but they won’t let me work more than a few hours at a time, because I get these fucking headaches”—

Ward looked up in surprise, realizing he’d never heard Fitz say anything stronger than a _damn_ before.

Fitz laughed at his look. “Don’t act like it’s a new word to you, Ward,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m Scottish, and I swear like a Scot. Just n-not in front of Simmons, because she doesn’t think it’s very professional.”

Ward felt a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Now come, on Ward,” Fitz said, his manner more businesslike. “I don’t have all day. Simmons says I always have to be the professor—Professor Plum. Who are you going to be?”

“The soldier, I guess,” Ward said. “There aren’t really any other characters I could pull off.”

“Oh, come on Ward, I’m sure you’ve gone undercover as a pretty woman in a scarlet dress before,” Fitz said sarcastically, and Ward rolled his eyes.

“I _did_ have to wear a dress on one mission,” Ward said. “Hungary. Long story.”

“Now _that’s_ the kind of story I want to hear,” Fitz said. “Come on, Ward. You have to tell it now.”

Ward shook his head, rolling the dice with his free hand. He moved his game piece towards the nearest room on the playing board, but when he looked up at Fitz, the kid was still waiting.

“You’re going to tell that story,” Fitz said obstinately. “Or I’ll be forced to bring Scrabble and kick your ass so badly even Simmons will have to admit that I’m better. I would bring Battleship and destroy you with that, too, but Skye won’t let anyone play Battleship right now.”

Ward sat up straight at the mention of Skye, not sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry because of Fitz’s words.

“I’m waiting, Agent Ward,” Fitz said, folding his arms.

“Fine,” Ward sighed dramatically. “It wasn’t… it wasn’t as funny as it sounds. It’s just that I was undercover alone, and at the last minute Agent Hand decided it was too dangerous to send an extraction team. So I was stuck on the border, with this guy who used to be a member of the Romanian _fraternitate_ …”

By the time he was finished, Fitz was nearly bent double with laughter, and Ward himself was grinning widely.

It took him a minute to realize it was the most he had spoken at one time in more than nine months.

Fitz laughed for at least ten minutes straight, and Ward couldn’t help but smile every time Fitz tried and failed to control his giggling.

Finally, Fitz pulled himself together enough to continue with the game, though he still stopped mid-sentence occasionally and dissolved into laughter again.

Fitz had only completed four turns when he guessed—correctly—the identity, room, and weapon and won the Clue game. Ward hadn’t even figured out who the murderer was.

When Fitz finally stood to leave, Ward realized he had been there for over three hours. Why the guards had allowed him to visit this long, Ward had no idea. It certainly couldn’t be on Coulson’s orders, because Coulson wanted Fitz to have nothing to do with Ward.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Fitz promised, and the guard opened the door for them. “What game should I bring?”

Ward shrugged as if he didn’t care.

“If you don’t make a choice, I’m going to bring Scrabble and kick your ass,” Fitz threatened, and no threat in the history of Ward’s life had ever made him this happy.

“Whatever you want,” Ward said carelessly, because part of him was still trying to convince Fitz to stay far, far away from him. Another part of him, though, a selfish part, was longing for another visit as soon as this one ended.

When Ward was back in his cell, alone, he reached a tentative hand to his lips. So this is what it felt like to speak with your own voice. Grant Ward told stories with those lips; lost badly at his favorite board games with those tentative, shaking hands.

The tiniest seed inside of Ward began to hope that he would have the chance to know more about who Grant was. And who he could be.


	54. A New Mission

Fitz brought checkers the next day—and won again—and _Sorry!_ the day after. The three weeks that followed were full of board games—no Battleship, of course, and no Scrabble (Ward had beat Simmons at Scrabble over a year ago, and no one would play him since then).

Fitz wasn’t able to come every day, but Ward found himself growing accustomed to at least three or four visits a week, always with a new board game.

“Where are you finding all these board games?” Ward asked him at the end of the third week.

Fitz turned red and mumbled something under his breath.

Ward leaned across the table, grinning in disbelief. “What?” he demanded. “Did Leo Fitz, upstanding Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., take something without permission?”

Fitz shook his head vehemently, but his face was still red with embarrassment. “It wasn’t _stealing_ ,” he said sharply, as if he was trying to reassure himself more than anyone. “We’re allowed to play with any of the board games in the main room near our quarters. We’re just not supposed to remove them from the premises, but since this is also a government facility, technically speaking, I didn’t really _remove_ them.”

“You stole them,” Ward said flatly, still grinning. “You stole _board games_ from S.H.I.E.L.D., and then you smuggled them into one of the most high-security prisons in the world. Damn, Fitz, that’s a pretty badass heist you’ve got going on a regular basis. And all with no collaboration.”

“Well, technically speaking”—Fitz began, and then stopped again.

Ward raised his eyebrows. “Technically speaking?”

“You see, Simmons decided to stay on the base with me while the team is on this mission, because she wanted to do some research, and we… we’re a team, me and Simmons. We didn’t really want to split up.”

“And _Simmons_ helped you smuggle the board games,” Ward said unbelievingly, unable to wipe the stupid smile off of his face.

“She distracted my superior officer once,” Fitz said proudly, and then his forehead wrinkled slightly. “Well, when I say distracted, I mean—well, you know Simmons. She’s brilliant, of course, but she’s _terrible_ at undercover. She pretended to trip and spill her tea on him while I snuck these dominoes out, but it was more of an awkward little hop and a skip, and then she just sort of poured it on his jacket.”

Ward found himself laughing out loud for the first time since he could really remember.

Fitz continued his visits nearly every day—one day even bringing Candy Land, which Ward refused to play on the grounds that it said it was for ages 2 and up.

“Well, you fit that category, don’t you, Ward?” Fitz asked mischievously.

“It’s a game for toddlers!”

“We’re playing.”

“Fitz, this is ridiculous”—

“You’re just afraid that I’ll win like I always do.”

“Fine. We’ll play, just this once. But next time you’re bringing Scrabble.”

Ward was sleeping better now, too, and then one day Fitz did bring Scrabble. He wasn’t nearly as cheerful as usual, and Ward noticed immediately that he was stuttering again, something that had seemed to nearly disappear over the past month.

“Everything okay?” Ward asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“God, not you, too,” Fitz snapped suddenly. “I am sick of e-everyone asking me if I’m okay every single second of every day. I am _fine_ , and I am sick of being babied!”

Ward felt concern tug at him. “Of course you’re fine,” he said. “So, Scrabble, then?”

Fitz dropped his head in his hands, and Ward resisted the impulse to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ward,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m just… I’m so tired. I’m sick of being behind everyone else and treated like I’m some little kid when I’m not, I’m a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a scientist and a”—

Fitz’s voice broke, and Ward felt sick to his stomach.

He had done this. Caused all this.

“You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met,” Ward said suddenly, surprising even himself. “And the smartest. If anyone’s treating you like a kid, they’re just jealous ass holes.”

Fitz looked up in surprise, wiping the back of his sleeve across his face.

He swallowed hard, and Ward looked away.

Seeing Fitz so broken was tearing Ward apart.

“The worst part is that they’re right, though,” Fitz whispered, and Ward opened his mouth to argue with him. “I can’t keep up with the other scientists. It would help if I had time to just freshen up on some of the principles I studied back at the academy, or if I could just talk through some of the questions we’re researching”—

“Do it here,” Ward said abruptly. “No, I’m serious. I know shit about science, but you could study here, so you wouldn’t have to do it in front of anyone at the base. And you could tell me about your research—I mean, not anything important, because Coulson and everyone will kill you if you give intel to a piece-of-shit Hydra agent, but you can at least talk about what’s bugging you. I mean, it’s not like I’ll understand half of it anyway, and who do I have to tell?”

Fitz looked up at him, a spark of hope in his eyes. “Really? You want to hear all that?”

“More than board games,” Ward said firmly. “But right now, I’m going to beat your ass at Scrabble.”

Ward made sure it was a good game—and he let Fitz win by a close shave, so he could go back to the base and tell Jemma that the person who had beaten her at Scrabble had lost to him—and played the earlier breakdown off as minor.

When he arrived back at his cell, though, he fell apart.

_Fitz._

_Goddamnit, Fitz._

The kid had been struggling for nine months—nine fucking months—because Ward had followed orders and done the unthinkable.

For the first time since Fitz had started visiting, Ward longed to see Garrett. He wasn’t sure if it was because he wanted to scream the question of _why, why, why_ into his face, or because he wanted someone to make him suffer for what he had done.

Ward paced his cell as always, three steps by two steps. He wanted to scream, wanted to tear at his own skin; his skin stained with so much blood and so much filth.

_I fucked everything up for them. For Fitz, for Simmons, for Coulson and May… for Skye._

Ward dropped onto his cot, and sat facing the door, staring straight forward, unseeing.

Later, when the guards came to take Ward to the shower, he drove an elbow into one guard’s face. In a second, he was on the ground and all three of the guards were kicking him in his newly-healed ribs. One landed a blow to his face, re-opening the old wound Garrett had given him the last time he had returned to his team undercover.

Ward didn’t fight back, just curled on the cold stone floor and took the blows.

When they had finished with him, and dragged him back into his cell, bloodied and bruised, Ward resumed his place on his cot, staring forward unseeing.

He spat blood out onto the concrete floor, and then stared at it listlessly. The hope that had sprung up so suddenly with Fitz’s visits was disappearing, fading away as if it had never existed.

Ward didn’t deserve hope—not when it had cost Fitz so much.

And it was with a sinking feeling Ward realized that the beating had not brought the erasure he sought; he still couldn’t distance himself from everything he had done and everything that had happened.

Perhaps, after all, nothing could erase what he had done…


	55. An Illicit Deal

_1700 hours, a secure prison facility._

_“These are the numbers for a Swiss bank account,” Ward told the stranger standing before him, and the man nodded. “You will use the money to purchase the specified package, and the remaining money in the account will be yours once you have completed that task.”_

_“Understood,” the man said. “And how do you know I won’t just take the money for the package and leave?”_

_“Because if the package is not bought and delivered as we agreed, I’ll kill you,” Ward said coldly. “Slowly.”_

_The man paled slightly, then tried to pass of the remark as a joke, grinning nervously. “Of course,” he said. “And where is the package to be delivered?”_

_“To the base,” Ward said. “Engineering and research, to the youngest scientist. You are to tell him the package is to be his assistant, and that it is part of research another science division on the capabilities of the package to serve as an assistant.”_

_“And what is the package, sir?”_

_Ward surveyed the man carefully for a long moment._

_“A monkey,” he said finally. “The package is a monkey.”_


	56. Simmons

“You’re supposed to lose visiting privileges for a week,” Coulson told him. He visited the day after Ward had provoked the guard and then bribed another guard to buy Fitz a monkey.

“Good,” Ward said, rubbing one of the bruises on his face.

“That’s the most fucking selfish response I’ve ever had,” Coulson snapped suddenly. “Fitz takes time out of his days to come here and visit you, and he’s going to be more hurt by this than you are.”

 _He’ll be pretty occupied_ , Ward thought, his lips turning up slightly at the thought of Fitz’s reaction when he saw the monkey for the first time.

“He wouldn’t want to see me like this,” Ward said, looking away from Coulson.

“Why did you do it?” Coulson asked suddenly, and when Ward looked up at him, he saw an odd sadness in his eyes. “I saw the footage, Ward. If you had wanted to cause any damage, you would have. In fact, you could have taken out all three guards even with your hands cuffed. So why?”

Ward didn’t respond.

“Simmons said Fitz has been having a rough time recently,” Coulson said slowly. “And I suppose you noticed that when he visited you that day.”

Ward was still silent. _Coulson needs to stop being right every damn time._

“So that’s it?” Coulson said incredulously. “Is that how your mind works?”

“Are you here to ask me questions about Hydra, or are you here to analyze me?” Ward snapped, sitting up straight suddenly. “Because we both know what I am, Coulson, and I don’t think giving me some psycho-analysis is going to change any of that.”

Coulson looked at him sharply, then folded his arms. “I don’t think you have any idea who you are, Ward,” he said finally. “As for what you are, I don’t think you know that, either. I’m beginning to realize that _I_ didn’t really know, either.”

“Can we get to the part where you tell me what kind of information you want?” Ward asked irritably, forcing his tone to sound bored, as if Coulson’s words didn’t twist in his gut.

“I didn’t come for information,” Coulson said. “Except to point out that I said you were _supposed_ to lose visiting privileges. Not that you lost them. Apparently, some of the guards have taken a liking to Fitz, and they couldn’t refuse him.”

Ward rolled his eyes. “Of course they couldn’t,” he said. “But you can’t let him in while I look like this.”

“He’s not here today,” Coulson said. “But you have a different visitor today.”

Ward’s heart leapt into his throat. _Skye?_

“Simmons, you can come in,” Coulson said, and Ward let out his breath in a mixture of relief and disappointment.

Simmons entered, her face stiff and cold. Coulson exited, leaving him alone with Simmons.

“I don’t think I can ever forgive you for what you did to Fitz,” she said abruptly, her eyes fierce. “He won’t ever be the same.”

Ward stared back at her, emotionless and unsurprised. “I don’t expect you to.”

“Fitz got a monkey yesterday,” she said, and suddenly there were tears shining in her eyes.

“Fancy that,” Ward said carelessly.

“They told him it was part of some research done by a different division of S.H.I.E.L.D. on the practicality of having monkeys work as lab assistants,” Simmons continued. “Which wasn’t true, but no one but me looked into it. Skye traced the delivery and the payments through six different accounts and dead ends, and then we found that the money came from a bank in Switzerland. The account belonged to someone… someone under the pseudonym Dana Ward.”

A muscle in Ward’s cheek twitched, but he gave no other sign that the name affected him. “Your point?” he asked coldly.

“My point,” Simmons said, sniffling just slightly. “Is that you bought Fitz a monkey with money from an account you took out under your little brother’s name. And I’ve seen the security footage. It’s only when he’s with you that he doesn’t stutter so badly. And he’s happy.”

Ward swallowed hard. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

She turned to go.

“Simmons?” he said suddenly, his throat clenching with emotion. “I didn’t”—

He stopped, but she met his gaze, her eyes fierce with sadness and anger and the smallest hint of understanding.

“I never said”—Ward tried again, but then shut his mouth. It wasn’t worth it. No words, however many times he tried, could ever begin to confront the horrors of what he had done. If he just kept his mouth shut, Simmons could continue loathing him freely, and he owed her that privilege.

Simmons swallowed hard, and then she nodded. “I don’t think you’ll ever be able to say it,” she said. “But you bought Fitz a monkey, and you’ve been the only one to reach him on his worst days.”

“After I sent him to the bottom of the ocean in the first place,” he said harshly. _You have to hate me, Simmons. You deserve to have someone to punish for what happened to you and Fitz, so take it out on me, Simmons… take it out on me._

“The pod,” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “It was supposed to float, wasn’t it? You dropped us in a lifeboat, Ward. I haven’t forgotten that.”


	57. The Rescue

Fitz visited him three days after Simmons visited. He was bouncing on his heels, his face brighter than Ward had ever seen.

“ _I have a monkey_!” he nearly shouted the second Ward entered the interrogation room. “Ward, can you believe it? I have a _monkey_ , Ward, a real, live, actual monkey, a Goeldi’s marmoset from Peru who was in captivity because he was injured by a poacher. Did you know that there are some bastards in this world who hurt adorable little monkeys? I named it Gerald—I mean, technically he doesn’t have a name, because he’s there to work as an assistant, because another science division wants to research the capabilities of monkeys to work as lab assistants—which is perfectly logical, of course, because they’re smart; smarter than people, sometimes—and they only use monkeys they can’t release back into the wild because they don’t know how to live on their own.”

Ward listened to the rant with a grin that was growing increasingly wider and wider. Fitz had not stuttered even once.

“Simmons checked it out and told me they were going to let me keep him,” Fitz said. “He’s really brilliant, Ward, you would love him. I wonder if the guards would let him in here if I asked _really_ nicely.”

“I don’t think so,” Ward laughed. “They’re barely comfortable with you bringing board games in. It’s kind of, you know, a high security prison.”

“Did you just… did you just make a joke, Agent Ward?” Fitz asked incredulously.

Ward looked down self-consciously, but Fitz started laughing.

“Skye said you get easily offended,” Fitz shook his head. “She said you couldn’t handle losing at Battleship, and you would pout for hours.”

_Skye._

Just her name stirred the sharp longing inside him, just to see her face, once more. Even if he didn’t deserve it. Even if she would look at him with hatred pouring from her dark eyes.

“So I brought something to read, like you talked about last time,” Fitz said brightly. “I thought I could review some of the stuff from bio-chem. You know, it wasn’t my focus at the academy, but I always took extra classes so I could understand Jemma, and that’s where my memory’s at its worst.” His face fell slightly.

“I’m sure you’ll pick it up fast,” Ward said encouragingly. “You could”—

“What happened?” Fitz cut him off suddenly, his eyes dark as he pointed to the bruise on Ward’s face.

Ward turned away quickly.

“It’s nothing.”

“Were you in a fight?”

“Not exactly,” Ward said shortly. “Come on. Do your bio-chem.”

Fitz folded his arms, his forehead crinkling with worry. “Did they hurt you again?” he demanded. “Coulson told me they weren’t allowed to… to…” His eyes flicked to the dark stains on the floor; stains Ward tried hard to cover with his chair every time Fitz was in his room. “I know you try to hide that, Ward,” he said, pointing to the stains. “But I know what they did to you.”

“Stop it, okay?” Ward snapped. “I provoked the guard. Because that’s what I do. I start fights, I cause problems, even when I’m buried so deep in this hell hole there’s no chance I’ll ever get out. I figured if I couldn’t be out there doing what I do best, I might as well raise hell while I have the chance”—

“Shut up, Ward,” Fitz said abruptly. “You can fake your bravado all you like, and you won’t convince me.”

_So much for being the best at living a cover since Romanov. He couldn’t even convince Fitz anymore._

“Well, now I know why Simmons kept me so busy for the last three days,” Fitz said ruefully. He looked ready to say more, but when he caught Ward’s expression, he lifted his book. “I thought I’d review some basics on the CNS—the central nervous system, you know—and then you can quiz me on the terms. And maybe I’ll finally be able to have an intelligent conversation with Simmons again.”

“You know, I think Simmons cares more about just _having_ a conversation with you,” Ward told him. “Have you been avoiding her recently?”

“No-o,” Fitz said. “But she tries to coddle me too much, and I hate feeling stupid around her. I never used to feel like that. She’s been in the lab with me more now that I have Gerald, though, and he loves her, of course. Everyone loves Jemma.”

Ward grinned at him. “Especially”—

Fitz threw the book at him, and Ward ducked, grinning.

“You know, I still have one hand cuffed to this table, so you’re going to have to pick that up yourself, Fitz,” Ward teased. Fitz made a face at him and crossed the room to retrieve the book. “You should think before you let your temper get the better of you,” he said, dodging again as Fitz swung his elbow playfully in Ward’s direction.

Ward opened his mouth to make another smart mark, and then suddenly he jerked to attention.

Somewhere in the compound, there was more noise; different noise than usual. Something was wrong.

And was that a gunshot?

“Fitz,” Ward snapped. “Get down. No, other side of the table. Stay low.” He tugged frantically at his handcuff. If someone still loyal to Garrett or Hydra were coming to break him out—or any of the prisoners, really—they would shoot Fitz on sight, and, handcuffed as he was, Ward would be able to do nothing but watch.

“If they come in,” Ward ordered calmly. “You need to flip this table so you’re crouching behind it. Use the pen next to your notebook as a weapon, and aim for the sides of the attacker’s neck. You should be able to cause some damage, at least get a better weapon from one of them, especially if you have the element of surprise. Do you understand?”

“If I flip that table, your wrist breaks, and I’m not going to do that. Don’t be an idiot,” Fitz said, as if that settled the matter. “We need a new plan.”

Ward rolled his eyes. “It’s just a broken wrist,” he said urgently. “Listen, I heard gunshots. That either means a prisoner is trying to escape, or someone’s breaking in. And if they’re breaking in to a high security prison, it might just be for me. Which means they’ll shoot you as soon as they see you.”

“You don’t have to throw yourself away every time someone you care about is in danger,” Fitz said stubbornly. “We find another way.”

“It’s just my goddamn wrist!” Ward shouted, losing patience.

The gunshots were closer, now—they had minutes.

And then he saw it. His way out.

Fitz had brought Operation—how the guards had allowed that was beyond him—and one of the pieces might just be small enough.

It took Ward nine seconds to pick the lock on his handcuff, three to flip the table and shove Fitz down into relative safety, and twelve more to sharpen the end of one of Fitz’s keys to the lab against the table until it was a sufficient weapon.

He clenched it in his hand, and looked down at Fitz, who stared up at him, fearless.

“What if it’s not Hydra? What if they want to kill _you_?”

“Then let them,” Ward said harshly. “I don’t give a shit. We keep you safe.”

Ward turned slightly so he was facing the camera he knew was there. “If you’re coming for him,” he said coldly, gesturing to Fitz. “The first man who crosses that threshold dies with my blade in his heart.”

With Garrett, Ward had always been conflicted about the kill orders. In some ways, he had been afraid and angry and even saddened each time he received new orders. Now, however, he knew he would be merciless and not regret it.

Not if it meant Fitz would make it back to Simmons and his monkey safely.

“If I don’t make it out,” Ward said calmly as the gunshots sounded just outside the door. “Live a good life, okay Fitz? Will you do that? And tell Jemma how you feel already, goddamnit, because that’s getting really old.”

The door flew open, and Ward lifted his small blade, ready to let fly.

“Get Fitz up.” Coulson was standing in the doorway, two night-night guns in his hands. “And then we’re getting the hell out of here.”

Fitz scrambled to his feet, but Ward was staring in shock.

“What”—

“We need you out of here,” Coulson snapped hurriedly. “And they said no when I asked politely. So come _on_.”

“Why”—

“I don’t have the fucking time to give you a speech, Ward,” Coulson snapped, pulling out cuffs. “I’m putting these on you and we’re getting out of here.” 


	58. Reunion

The prison was in complete chaos. The other prisoners were still in their cells—Coulson hadn’t taken the easy way and unleashed general chaos to keep the guards busy—but there were the bodies of unconscious guards and the remaining guards were shouting and shooting and running.

Ward could take them out in an instant, but he understood why Coulson had cuffed him—was glad of it, almost, so there would be no temptation to run once they were outside. Fitz was protesting loudly.

“He could get _shot_ , Coulson, I can’t believe you’re doing this. You need to take his cuffs off—he can fight, you know he can”—

“If he’s cuffed, he can’t fight for the wrong side,” Coulson said shortly. “Come on, Fitz, you need to keep up.”

They rounded the corner, still running, Coulson leading and Ward bringing up the rear so he could keep Fitz covered. Simmons met them, holding two night-night guns ( _why did he keep calling the goddamn things by that name?_ ). She was in a battle stance so adorably reminiscent of May that Ward caught himself nearly smiling, despite the situation. May appeared behind her.

“The guards are down in this wing,” May said urgently. “Come on!”

“Where’s Skye?” Ward asked sharply.

“She and Triplett are meeting us at the Bus,” Simmons explained quickly as they took off running down the long corridor. “Skye was hacking their surveillance cams so it would be harder to raise an alarm. Trip was in the guard tower shutting off the fence around this place.”

They rounded one last corner—

And found three guards standing in their way, guns pointed directly at Coulson and May.

“Drop the weapons,” one commanded coldly, and May looked to Coulson, who nodded reluctantly.

They placed the weapons on the ground slowly.

“The girl too,” one barked, and Simmons scowled but tossed hers to the ground.

Then, unexpectedly, one of the guards hesitated. “What’s the kid doing with you?” he demanded, gesturing to Fitz, who blinked rapidly in confusion.

“He’s a member of our team,” Coulson said sharply.

“Why are you taking that shit bag?” the same guard pointed to Ward. “You were the ones who captured him in the first place.”

“For now, we need his help,” Coulson said fiercely. “It’s imperative to taking down Hydra, and to keeping my team safe, and there is _nothing_ I would not do to keep my team safe.”

“The kid with the board games, he’s part of your team?” another guard asked. “The one who likes monkeys so much?”

Coulson nodded, and the three guards looked at each other.

They nodded in unison.

“Make it believable,” one said, lowering his weapon just slightly.

“What?” Coulson blinked.

One of the guards drilled Ward with a dirty look. “It wasn’t for you, scum bag,” he said roughly. “It was for the kid.”

Coulson stared at them as if he couldn’t believe what they were saying, but May didn’t waste time. She dove for the night-night gun and fired three shots. The guards hit the ground with heavy thuds before Coulson had realized what was happening.

“Was that convincing enough?” she asked dryly, and then they were running again, through the doors that opened for them—courtesy of Triplett—and toward the front gate of the complex.

The outside of the prison complex was bleak; it was a barren, dry place surrounded by a high fence topped with barb wire, and an automated gate which swung open the second they reached it.

“Thank God for Trip,” May muttered, leading the way into the woods surrounding the prison complex.

They reached the Bus in ten minutes, and Triplett met them on the ramp. He greeted the others hurriedly, but didn’t look at Ward even once.

“Where’s Skye?” Coulson demanded immediately, stealing the words from Ward’s lips.

“Inside,” Trip said. “She didn’t want to see”—

He jerked his head at Ward, and Ward felt himself flinch at the words.

Of course she didn’t want to see him. Why should she? It was better this way; better that she could hate him from a distance without having to see him, a disgusting reminder of everything she loathed.

“Get him in the cell,” May told Triplett. “FitzSimmons, get to the lab. Fitz, your monkey’s waiting there. Wheels up in five.”

Triplett marched Ward to the cell, and the silence stretched on between them for miles.

“If you even _think_ about trying to escape, I’m pretty sure May will snap your neck,” Triplett said coldly when they reached the cell. “So don’t. Or do,” he said harshly, shrugging his shoulders. “Coulson says we need you, and he’s a good man and a good leader, but I wouldn’t be sad to see you go.”

Ward didn’t respond. People tended to hate him more when he didn’t rise to the bait, and he owed Triplett that, too. With Garrett gone, he deserved to have a target for his anger and his losses, and Ward had earned it.

“Coulson will want to brief you on what we brought you in for,” Triplett said casually. “Are you planning to help us?”

“Yes,” Ward said before he thought about it.

At least, he was planning to help Fitz and Simmons… and Skye. As to what that meant, he had no idea.

Triplett cuffed him to the table in the small interrogation cell, and Ward didn’t protest.

“For the record, I don’t believe you,” Triplett said as he reached the door. “And neither does May, so don’t try anything.”

Ward stared down at the table.

He had been in this room so many times a year ago when he had been part of this team, but as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent and a member of the team. In fact, he had interrogated Ian Quinn in here, and it was the same cell Quinn had been placed in after he had shot Skye. May had beaten Quinn up in this cell, taking out the same rage Ward had felt on that fateful day.

 _He deserves to die_ , May had said. _Not her!_

She would probably say that about Ward now—probably had said those words, in fact—and she was right.

He had thought it was about following orders, getting the job done. Had thought that was what mattered most, but now the question haunted him, burning at the back of his mind: _how was he any different than Ian Quinn?_

Ward sat in the interrogation room, alone with his memories, his shoulders stooped and his head bowed.

If it had been up to him, he would have stayed in the prison, existing in a void between Fitz’s visits.

At least in his cell he had not been buried by the memories.

After he had shot Nash… oh God. That though alone sent him spiraling. Nash had been a monster in his lifetime—Garrett had told him some of the things he had done—and he had been the perfect cover for Garrett.

What Ward hadn’t realized at the time was that even guilty blood stains your hands. That no matter how many times you justify the end to yourself, the means will haunt your nightmares for years to come.

They had placed him in this cell, and they had been going to send him to a S.H.I.E.L.D. review panel. He had hoped, even then, that someone would find him guilt and take him away from his team before Hydra came out of the shadows and forced him to turn on his team.

Skye had brought him a water bottle as he had sat in the cell, and placed her hands over his, even though she knew what he had done. It had always amazed him; that mixture of compassion and ferocity in her dark eyes. He craved her touch now; craved human touch. Outside of the interrogation sessions, there had been no physical contact, and no one had touched him except to punish him for so long he had almost forgotten how it felt…

The door flew open suddenly, jerking Ward out of the darkness of his memories.

It was her, staring down at him with conflicted anger and sadness and even a little regret. She was more beautiful than he remembered, all dark hair and eyes, fierce and savage like the sea after a storm, and the memories and longing flooded him so sharply that he fell back into his chair as if the sight of her was a physical force.

And though he didn’t deserve to say it, didn’t even deserve to think it, he breathed her name with such sorrow and guilt and regret in his voice he felt as if he was nearly drowning.

“ _Skye_.”


	59. Chapter 59

_“If a person seems wicked, do not cast him away. Awaken him with your words, elevate him with your deeds, repay his injury with your kindness. Do not cast him away; cast away his wickedness.” –Lao Tzu_

“Coulson thought it was important that we bring you in,” Skye spoke slowly, her words measured and careful, but her tone icy. “But that doesn’t mean he trusts you. I sure as hell don’t.”

“You shouldn’t,” Ward said gruffly. “You shouldn’t trust anyone, ever.”

The man who had saved him had given him those exact words fifteen years earlier, and it had been the kindest advice anyone had ever bestowed on him. It was the best gift he could give Skye; perhaps the only gift he could give her now; to learn not to trust and not to give of her precious heart to a world that wasn’t worthy of it.

“I trust my team,” she said sharply. “Remember, the team that _you_ sold out because your precious orders mattered more to you than our lives, Ward? So how has it been to live without orders for ten months? Did it nearly kill you?”

Ward looked away from her. “Why are you here, Skye?”

“Because Fitz has faith in you,” she said unexpectedly. “I don’t know why or how, but by some ridiculous miracle he has faith in you. I came to see if it was unfounded.”

“And was it?”

“Yes,” she said brutally. “It always was. I try to see the good in people, but Fitz looks for good that doesn’t exist. You, Grant Ward; you are too evil and manipulative for him to understand.”

The words gutted him. “I supposed you’re right,” he said, forcing his tone to sound careless. “Are you satisfied?”

“No,” she snapped, her face twisting with a sudden sadness. “No, I’m not satisfied, because… because you bought Fitz a monkey in secret, and you had money sent through seven fictitious accounts to avoid someone finding out who sent it, and I have no idea what the hell to do with that.”

Ward was silent for a long moment. “Why do you think _I_ bought the monkey?”

Skye rolled her eyes at his evasiveness. “Simmons told me,” she said. “And I’ve never seen Fitz this happy before in my life.”

Ward felt a smile tug at his lips at the thought of Fitz and his monkey, but the reality of Skye and the anger in her eyes pulled him down to earth quickly.

“I was in charge of messing with the surveillance footage, Ward, so I saw what happened in the prison today,” she continued. “And I saw how you protected Fitz. It’s no wonder Simmons told May off the other day when she talked about breaking your larynx. They told me you didn’t talk for six months after she did that.”

Her voice was heavy with sadness, despite her words, and Ward remembered with a flash that it was Skye who had seen the footage of the torture and interrogation first.

“Maybe I just didn’t want to give them any information,” Ward said arrogantly.

“Maybe you couldn’t,” she said quietly. “I heard that you talked to Coulson when he came, though.”

“And Fitz.”

“Everyone talks to Fitz,” she dismissed. “I meant intel. You helped us capture the remaining Centipede soldier—the ones with no eye pieces—and we were able to get inside Cybertek, thanks to some of your intel. Though I imagine you don’t want to hear how you’re helping to take down all of your old friends. My, how the tables have turned,” she finished bitterly. “Do you remember when I warned Miles, and he turned out to be a lying sack of shit? And remember how you acted like it was some big betrayal?” She laughed, a brittle, cold sound that was nothing like the laugh he knew she had.

_And he had been the one to rob her of that laughter. The one to break the light in her eyes…_

“The intel,” he said quietly, too tired to fight her. “What do you want to know?”

“It’s funny,” she said, ignoring his question. “You sold us out for your Hydra friends once. And now you’re willing to do the same to them. Don’t you have _any_ loyalties?”

“I didn’t have friends,” Ward said. “I had orders. And I had Garrett.”

“Garrett,” Skye said bitterly, as if the word was ash on her tongue. “I’ll always wonder why you let that bastard order you around your whole life. Maybe you liked it, Ward. Maybe you like”—

“ _What. Do. You. Want._ ” He said the words through his teeth, fighting down the bile that rose in his throat with all the memories—all the times he chose Garrett, all the time he chose to follow Garrett to hell, all the times he failed Garrett and begged him for the pain that erased everything else…

Skye leaned in close, her face inches from his.

In another world, it would have thrilled him.

In another world, he would never have met John Garrett.

In another world, he would have had the strength to throw his little brother a rope long ago.

In another world, he would never have had blood staining his very soul, blood not even the torture had been able to wash out.

In this world, Skye’s face being inches from his—her dark, wild eyes, savage and beautiful and so, so sad—just fills him with sorrow and regret.

“I want you to understand what you’ve done to us,” she hissed, the words snaking across her tongue and crawling into his skin. “I want you to suffer the way I have suffered. The way _we_ have suffered.”

He almost believed her; almost trusted her rage, but it was still there—he could still see her, underneath, could see that it was not just rage she felt, but sadness and regret, and a love that burned her to the core.

Because that was it, he realized.

That was the true awfulness of what he had done to her.

It wasn’t the betrayal. Wasn’t even the kidnapping.

It was the love.

Because she had told him, so long ago, that hoping for something and losing it hurt more than hoping for nothing at all, and he had done just that.

She had fallen in love with him, and it was love that burned in rage inside her now, fiercer and more painful than anything else he could have done to her.

Because even after his betrayal and lies and cruelty, her love couldn’t just disappear. Love was a wound—a costly wound—that could not be erased at will, and Skye had possessed the kind of love that tears down walls and crosses boundaries and does not die with betrayal, only twists.

He had thought he had wanted this. Wanted to see Skye again.

Perhaps what he really wanted, now, was to do one half-way decent thing with his miserable, filthy life, and that was to get out of hers, finally and forever. Perhaps if he walked away, she would find her way out; perhaps the love would wear away, and with it the pain of the betrayal, until the rage had made her stronger and decimated her grief until she could live happy again.

And with that, Grant Ward made the first choice in his life that was based on neither orders or survival:

That when all this was over, he would disappear from Skye’s life so completely, he would leave nothing but a phantom of a memory behind him.


	60. Healing Crooked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognize our shared humanity.” –unknown

Skye left him finally, and Ward sat in the cell alone for a long time, his shoulders stooped, the ghost of every old wound burning in his skin like a memory.

Coulson came nearly an hour later. “I’m here to brief you on what we need from you,” Coulson said. “You’ll spend your time in this cell. The adjoining cell is a bathroom, and Triplett is bringing a cot here.”

“Why did you bring me in, sir?”

“Because you have Hydra contacts,” Coulson said. “And as far as they know, you’re still loyal. You’re also Garrett’s replacement.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We’re attempting to infiltrate a Hydra cell that is holding some science students taken from the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy,” Coulson told him, and Ward sat up straighter. “What do you know about it?”

“I know that Garrett didn’t tell me it was happening until it happened,” Ward said, grimacing. “He didn’t keep me updated on a lot of his projects. I was just there to help him survive.”

_And you failed at that, didn’t you, Ward?_

_You failed the only mission he placed you on._

“Do you know anything? Location, what they wanted the scientists to work on?”

“He wanted Fitz for it,” Ward said, looking away, his gut twisting with shame. “I told him that Fitz would never work for him, and Garrett saw that for himself right after… right after we were activated.” His voice fell to barely more than a whisper. Giving up the Hydra intel wasn’t difficult—but talking to Coulson about the part he had played?

It was damn near impossible.

“There are a lot of innocent kids trapped, Ward,” Coulson said quietly. “And we have no leads. No chatter, no hits, nothing. Forty-six brilliant young scientists can’t just disappear into thin air, Ward, so help me. Help them. You would do it for Fitz.”

“I would do it for them,” Ward said honestly. “But all I can tell you is that it involved the Gravitonium.”

_Which I gave Garrett._

He had cherished Garrett’s look of pride when he had uncovered the gravitonium; had told himself that Garrett was a survivor, and survivors wouldn’t use the device for anything but insurance.

But he had been wrong about Garrett, at least in some ways. Garrett hadn’t wanted to simply survive; he had wanted to live forever. And it had cost them both too much.

“Garrett had a base outside of Prague where he only let a few select people work,” Ward continued, swallowing hard and brushing away his memories so he could focus on Coulson’s mission. “And I know he had one in Hong Kong, one in Belarus, and one in eastern Lithuania. I don’t have the exact coordinates to any of them, but I could probably get you close. I would say you should start with Lithuania, because most of the complex was underground, so it’d be the easiest place to hide a big group of scientists.”

“What can you tell me about the Lithuanian facility?” Coulson asked, looking at Ward sharply, unused to this level of openness and cooperation.

“I only visited once, and I was only on the upper level of the compound,” Ward said listlessly, looking away. “When I was there, they had three guards at the main entrance, and six stationed around the outside of the complex. There are more inside, of course, and some of the doors have a guard there at all times. I don’t know anything else about them.”

“Are there any lab facilities?”

“All of the bases had lab facilities.”

“Enough for forty-six scientists?”

Ward nodded. “And enough cells to contain the ones that don’t want to help.”

“Is there a possibility that the students held are being tortured?” Coulson asked unexpectedly, and Ward flinched as if he had struck him.

_Of course they’re being tortured._

_Just like Fitz would have been if I hadn’t convinced Garrett I had crossed him off._

_And they’re just kids, kids like Fitz and Simmons and I caused this I caused this I caused this—_

“Ward,” Coulson said sharply. “Answer the question.”

“Yes,” the word tore from Ward’s lips. “If they’re not following orders, they’re being tortured. That’s how it works with Garrett,” Ward finished, his voice sure. This much, at least, he knew.

It made him sick to his stomach.

Coulson was watching him carefully. “Do you know that from personal experience?” he asked finally, his eyes dim with sorrow.

“About the torture?” Ward asked. “If I didn’t follow orders?”

“Yes.”

“I always made sure to follow orders,” Ward said coldly, trying to brush away the memories. His skin crawled as he felt, with painful acuteness, every old scar, every faded bruise, every broken bone that had healed crooked.

“We both know that’s not quite true,” Coulson said, and Ward looked up at him again. “So tell me. Did John Garrett ever hit you?”

Ward paused for a long moment. “Training requires force, on occasion.”

“And after training, did he ever hit you?”

“Only when necessary.”

“When”—Coulson stopped, swallowing hard as if he were having difficulty finding words. “When was the first time he hit you?”

“At the beginning of training,” Ward said promptly. “The first day. In the woods.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

This, these questions, they were better. He could handle this. It was an interrogation, it was information. The beatings had been nothing, really, nothing that bothered him—

The rib nearest his heart felt suddenly sore, the twinge of pain making him realize that he was fooling himself. Of course it mattered.

It was the first Garrett had broken, back on that first day of training, when he had failed to perform the way Garrett had wanted.

Coulson rubbed a hand over his eyes. “I don’t know why I’m asking you these questions,” he said finally, and then seemed about to say more. Instead, he just said shortly, “The intel you gave will help us track down a lead,” he said. “And I didn’t want any of that intel to be on the prison cams, so for now you’ll be staying here in case we need any more similar intel.”

Ward didn’t respond, and Coulson turned to go, his shoulders stooped as if he carried a burden no one else could see.

Ward sat back, rubbing the place where his first broken rib had twinged unexpectedly and thinking of Coulson’s odd questions and even odder expression.

But most of all he thought of Garrett, and what he would say if he knew how readily Ward was giving up the information so easily.

 _You piece of shit kid, I never could trust you with a secret_ , he would have yelled, and Ward would have agreed tacitly; would have asked Garrett to do what he always did.

Now, though, there was no Garrett to tell him who he was, so he began to do it himself.

_You’ve done so much, Ward. So many awful things. So many horrendous things. You cannot undo them, cannot pay for them, cannot make them right._

_But maybe you can start a new list. Maybe you can add a few decent things to this pile of shit that is your life. Maybe, if you could never live well, you will be able to, one day, die well._

Ward straightened in his chair, thinking of Skye and Fitz and a group of scared kids hidden in a Hydra compound somewhere, and he swore an oath to himself as he battled to stay afloat in a room full of ancient, twinging scars and memories that threatened to swallow him.

He would protect, again, the kind of protecting that involved rescue—his own, never, but at the very least the kids like Fitz who were suffering because of him.

It would be a brand new set of orders.


	61. Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now wakes the hour   
> Now sleeps the swan   
> Behold the dream   
> The dream is gone."  
> \--PF

_Eleven pm. The night before the infiltration of the Lithuanian base._

_Coulson stood with his team in the briefing room. On one of the screens, the live feeds of the plane were displayed, one of them of the interrogation cell where Ward was spending his time._

_Skye yawned, turning her back to the feed, and Coulson looked at her in concern, knowing how hard it must be for her to have him on board, a constant, forceful presence that reminded her of all she had loved and believed in and lost._

_He looked up at the screen._

_Ward was lying on his cot, one arm thrown across his face, and Coulson couldn’t tell if he was sleeping or lying there awake._

_He turned his attention back to the mission._

_“This is a long shot,” he began. “But it will be worth it. Ward told me there was base in Eastern Lithuania, and when I evaluated all the known bases with research facilities, this seemed the most likely possibility. The complex is mostly underground though, so the infiltration will be tricky.”_

_May looked up at him, her face expressionless. “We can handle it,” she shrugged. “How many guards?”_

_“Dozens,” Coulson said, and she shrugged a second time._

_“I still say we can handle it,” she said. “Triplett and I can handle them, and Skye can be there for backup.”_

_Behind her, Skye straightened proudly, her eyes showing a little more light than usual at being included on May’s list._

_“She’s made a lot of progress,” May continued at Coulson’s look. “She’s a natural at Tai Chi, and her skills even before that were remarkable. She’ll be our backup.”_

_“I want to come,” Fitz said. He was holding his monkey, and the animal—which already clearly adored him—climbed onto his shoulder._

_“No,” Coulson and May said simultaneously, and Simmons folded her arms._

_“We talked about this, Fitz,” she said with exasperation. “We need you here. That’s why I’ll be going to”—_

_“No,” Coulson and May spoke simultaneously again, and May grinned just slightly at him. “Fitz and Simmons, you’re both staying here,” Coulson continued. “Fitz, we’ll need you on coms. Before Skye goes, she’ll hack their security system, and you’ll manage it remotely, let us know when guards are coming, where we need to go. There’ll be plenty for both of you to do if some of the students are injured when we recover them.”_

_Fitz fed his monkey a treat he had pulled from his pocket, too distracted to be protest, and Simmons looked relieved._

_Suddenly, she straightened, concern washing over her face. “It’s Ward,” she said suddenly. “I’m monitoring his vitals, and there was a spike… actually,_ everything _just spiked.”_

_The group turned as one to the monitor, Skye’s look twisting with that mixture of hurt and anger that was always present when she looked at Ward. Coulson reached out instinctively and put a hand on her shoulder, and she leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment before moving away._

_Ward was still lying on his cot, but his body was arching as if he were in pain, and Coulson stood up straight._

_“What’s happening, Simmons?” Coulson asked sharply._

_“His body is responding as if he’s in pain,” Simmons said slowly, cocking her head in confusion. “But there’s no physical force in the room causing it.”_

_“Is he asleep?” Coulson asked suddenly, his voice dull and quiet._

_Simmons checked her screen again. “Yes,” she said finally. “And his REM is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.”_

_“You mean he’s having a nightmare?” Fitz asked, his brow crinkling._

_“And his body is reacting like he’s actually in pain?” Triplett asked._

_“Yes to both,” Simmons said softly, her eyes dimming slightly._

_“Well, we’ve got to go wake him then,” Fitz said, looking around at the others, who stood motionless until Trip reached out and grabbed his arm._

_“No,” Trip said softly. “You know he would hate that even more. Leave him be.”_

_Fitz jerked his arm away. “He’s in pain,” he argued. “We can’t just leave him there!”_

_Coulson watched the screen wordlessly. Ward’s body arched again, his face screwed up in a grimace of intense pain. There was no sound on the feed, but when Ward opened his mouth finally, Coulson almost thought he could hear the scream._

_“I’m going in,” Fitz said determinedly, and Coulson shook his head._

_“No,” he said. “You’re staying here and that’s an order. If you wake Ward up, he’ll react before he’s even awake, meaning that you’d be in danger. And you know he would rather face hell alone than realize someone saw a moment of weakness. Stay here, Fitz.”_

_Fitz opened his mouth again, but then stopped abruptly, his mouth hanging open as he stared at the screen._

_Coulson turned back to the screen, and nearly jumped out of his skin._

_The door to the cell had opened and shut, and Skye was standing in front of Ward, her face twisted with sadness. She must have slipped out right after Simmons had told them he was having a nightmare._

_And there, in full view of the screen, Skye reached out her hand and touched Ward’s shoulder, pulling him from his nightmare._

_He jerked upright, one arm flailing wildly, as Coulson had known he would react._

_But when Ward saw Skye, he stopped, so eerily still it made Coulson pause._

_She removed her hand from his shoulder, and asked a question—what she asked, Coulson could not make out._

_Ward answered briefly—two words, maybe three—and Skye nodded._

_She turned her head just slightly, and Coulson read her lips this time._

_“I figured,” she said, and then turned to go._

_Ward’s eyes followed her to the door, though he didn’t move a muscle._

_But it was the look on his face that made Coulson pause._

_It was hope—such raw, desperate, impossible hope—and it robbed Coulson of breath._


	62. A New Mark

_Garrett was standing over him, his eyes reflecting the glowing metal brand he held in his hand. He leaned down and placed it on Ward’s exposed chest, just above his heart._

_“You are mine,” he had said. “I saved you. You can run all you want, but I bought you from the devil, Grant Ward, and you’ll always be mine.”_

_Ward screamed, sickened by the scent of his own burning flesh, by the sight of Garrett’s manic eyes staring down into his soul, by the sight of his own body quivering and shaking under the pain but not fighting back, never fighting back…_

It was a touch.

A gentle one.

And it pulled him out of the darkness.

Ward woke suddenly, arms flailing wildly. He stopped abruptly, because it was her standing there.

And her hand was on his shoulder.

He stared at her. Stared at her hand. Stared down at himself, at his shaking body.

She withdrew her hand, and he felt its absence.

It was the first time someone had touched him—outside of the brutal interrogations, of course—in over a year.

She stared at him for an eternity, her eyes soft, but her mouth a thin line.

“Was I making noise?” he asked stupidly. Not that it mattered. “Why did you come in?”

She ignored his question and continued staring at him.

“Was it about Garrett?” she asked finally. “Your nightmare?”

Ward hesitated, then pushed the collar of his shirt down, revealing the small scar over his heart, nodding as he did so. “The night he did this.”

Skye’s face twisted visibly, and it surprised him to see that she was struggling not to cry.

“I figured,” she said simply, and then turned to go, her footsteps dying away as the cell door swung shut behind her.

And Ward was left staring after her, the memory of her hand on his shoulder stamped across his memory like a new kind of brand. 


	63. Early Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see this light, and it’s not going out tonight, our sky is bright…” –Arshad

“We head out at dawn,” Coulson told him, and Ward stared at him distractedly. The superior officer had entered after Skye had left, and there was something in his expression now that told Ward he had seen everything that had happened. “Fitz and Simmons will stay on board here, and you’ll be with them in the briefing room. Handcuffed, of course, but I want you on coms in case we see trouble. Fitz and Simmons don’t have experience directing a mission from the outside, so you’ll be there to make sure it goes well.”

“Why?” Ward asked.

“Because we don’t have any other option,” Coulson said. “I don’t trust that you have our best interests at heart. You know that. But I do trust that you want Skye out of that compound safe, regardless of everything you’ve done.”

Ward looked away.

“And you know how to run a mission,” Coulson finished. “I don’t like having you on board, believe me. I would feel safer on the Bus and for my team if you were back in prison, but SHIELD has fallen apart, and I don’t have much of a choice. You’re not an ally, and you’re certainly not a friend, but you’re an asset, Ward. And right now, I need all the assets I can get my hands on.”

Ward nodded impassively. “Do you know how dangerous it is to go in with a four-man team?” he asked, his tone blank as if he couldn’t care less, though if he were honest with himself, the thought of Coulson and May and Skye going into a dangerous base alone scared him shitless. “The Cavalry is good,” he said dryly, knowing Melinda May was likely watching the live feed of his cell and seething with rage at the term. “But even she can’t take down an entire compound.”

“There are forty six innocent kids being held there by men who are most likely torturing some of them as we speak,” Coulson said sharply, his eyes sparking. “I am _not_ abandoning them. That’s something you’ll never understand, Ward. This isn’t about survival. This is about being part of something bigger. There was a time I thought you believed that, too.”

 _I was too busy trying to cling to life, Coulson. People like me don’t have the time to worry about anything_ but _survival._

“Though I supposed you never really got the chance, did you?” Coulson said unexpectedly, and Ward sat up straighter on his cot and looked at Coulson sharply. “With Garrett it was only ever about survival. His, mostly.”

“And mine.”

“No, Ward,” Coulson said. “Skye cracked the feeds from the last few hours you spent with him, and I saw the footage. The first thing John Garrett did after he thought he had insured his survival was to throw you away. It was never about your survival, Ward.”

“He _was_ my survival,” Ward said. “He was my purpose, my mission, my orders.” His voice dropped to just over a whisper. “My _salvation_.”

“Is that what he called it, Ward?” Coulson asked quietly, his arms folded as he stared at Ward. “Salvation? Look at yourself. No one saved you, Ward. Certainly not Garrett. And this team tried to, but you destroyed that.”

Ward caught his breath as if he had been slapped, then recovered his composure. “When do you want me on coms?” he asked dully. “Is Triplett coming to take me there?”

“No,” a cold voice answered from the doorway. Melinda May stood there, her face dark. “The _Cavalry_ came for you today, Ward.” She stepped past Coulson and kicked him once, sharply, in the ribs. “Get up,” she snapped.

“May,” Coulson said softly, and it sounded almost like a rebuke.

Ward stood, looking past her as if he didn’t see her, didn’t care what she did to him.

She cuffed him and pushed him roughly to the door, which opened from the outside. Triplett was standing there, his weapon drawn in readiness.

He didn’t have to bother, Ward thought dully. He wasn’t going anywhere. They were airborne, in the middle of nowhere, and the only damage he could possibly do by escaping was to himself.

Though that option didn’t seem all bad, he realized. Wind and falling and then silence. Ending. It wouldn’t be a terrible way to die.

May and Triplett led him to operations HQ, where Simmons was waiting to set up his coms. May shoved him roughly into a chair and cuffed him to a ring at the center of the table.

Simmons approached him uncertainly, holding out an ear piece. Ward took it with his free hand, giving her a tiny, encouraging smile.

“I’ll land the plane,” May said coolly, giving Ward one last glare before turning on her heel and leaving the room.

Triplett followed her, replacing his gun in his belt, and Simmons was already at the opposite door talking to Fitz.

Coulson looked at Ward for a long moment.

“Good luck,” Ward said sardonically, and Coulson smiled just slightly.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, and Ward rolled his eyes.

His expression changed in a split second, though, as he heard raised voices near the door.

It was Fitz, and his hands were shaking as he argued with Simmons about something. Fitz’s voice trembled and halted over words, and finally he threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “I am _not_ weak and s-stupid!” he shouted at Simmons, who looked as if she might cry. “S-stop treating m-me like that!”

He turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Simmons looked at them desperately. “What the hell am I supposed to do?” she asked frantically, and Ward saw tears standing in her eyes. She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and followed Fitz, catching up to him and laying a hand on his arm; a hand he shrugged off angrily.

Coulson turned to Ward again. “He’s had a hard time,” he said quietly. “He saved Simmons, you know. Made a make-shift oxygen tank so she could get to the surface. He was a hero down there.”

Ward stared down at his hands, guilt gutting him like a physical force. _I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry_ , he wanted to shout; wanted to but couldn’t because the air he breathed was thick with the stench of his own guilt.

 “I would pay for it,” he said suddenly, surprising himself at the fierce desperation in his own voice. “Gladly. I would spend every day of the rest of my life paying for it somehow, if it made any difference. But it doesn’t. You can’t save someone from themselves, sir.”

Coulson looked at him for a long moment. “Yes you can,” he said softly, regret etched onto his face as if it was carved in stone. “You can if you get to them early enough.”  


	64. Disaster

Skye, Coulson, and the specialists had been gone for an hour before the coms went live.

Fitz and Simmons had rejoined Ward in the mission HQ on the bus, though Fitz was quieter than normal and wouldn’t look Ward in the eye. Ward had the Lithuanian base’s security cams streaming live in front of him, and Fitz hung over his shoulder, the silence thick in a room that was normally filled with his chatter.

“Ward, tell me the position of the guards at the rear entrance,” Coulson hissed into the com. “We’re on the ground.”

“Three on the ground, one on the roof,” Ward told him. “The roof guard is on the far corner, facing the fence from what I can tell, but you have to watch him. He’s probably a sniper. The other three are dispersed, so if you take them out quickly enough you should get by without setting off any alarms.”

A few minutes later, the trackers on the three ground guards all showed them motionless, obviously knocked out and concealed as best they could in the shadow of the bare shrubbery and the surrounding buildings.

“We’re in the building,” Coulson updated them. “Fitz, what kind of clearance do I need to get to the lower level of the building?”

“Any of the guards should have the clearance,” Fitz reported. “But you might want to take a pass from someone higher up, just in case it sets off some kind of alarm. Their security system doesn’t detail what kind of clearance is needed in what part of the building.”

Coulson didn’t answer, and suddenly Ward heard a noise spike in the background noise coming through the coms—shouting, the sound of an alarm… and was that a gunshot?

“Status, Coulson,” Ward demanded, fear rising like bile in his throat. “What’s happening?”

If only he hadn’t fucked everything up so badly, he’d be out there with them, protecting them. Protecting Skye.

An eternity passed and—

“We’re fine,” Coulson said breathlessly. “They know we’re here.”

“Take the door on your left,” Ward said quickly. “It leads to a supply closet that opens from two rooms. Hide in the supply closet, and if you hear them coming, take the other way out. It should lead you to a lab which, according to security details, is empty. From that room, turn left into the hallway until you find the stairs. They should be on your right.”

Coulson assented, and they heard the sound of running footsteps.

There was more muffled shouting and scuffling, and then Coulson said, still breathless, “How many levels down?”

“The security surveillance shows at least six, but this is Garrett’s base, so there’s probably another level or two that are off the grid,” Ward said. “His secrets had secrets, Coulson. There’s no telling how deep this one goes.”

Ward saw four green trackers blinking in steady unison as they descended lower and lower into the compound. The red trackers that indicated the presence of guards were growing less and less frequent, and Ward breathed a small sigh of relief.

“Ward,” Coulson said suddenly. “We have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?” Ward asked quickly, and FitzSimmons leaned forward as one, worry jumping into their faces.

“Oh god,” Coulson said suddenly. He sounded as if he were going to be sick.

“Sir?” Ward asked, panic clawing at him. “Sir! What’s going on? I don’t have visual, the surveillance cams only cover the first three floors.”

“We found the students,” Coulson said quietly, his tone thick with horror. “It’s… Ward… there’s more here than I thought.”

“There’s almost a hundred,” May chimed in suddenly.

“Ward, which way do we take them?” Coulson asked urgently. “Some of them are hurt—badly. Ward!”

“There’s a lift at the back of the biggest lab. Are the scientists being held in individual cells or in the main lab?”

“The ones that are injured are in med rooms, but they’re locked like cell doors,” Coulson updated him, and Ward heard the sound of a brief scowl. “And… they are no longer being guarded. The other scientists are in the labs with different guards watching over their work. We’ve taken out the guards. You said there was a lift?”

“It’ll only accommodate about a dozen at a time,” Ward said. “And that would be stretching it.”

“Will it take us to the surface?”

“Yes,” Ward said.

“We’ll take twenty at a time.”

“You’ll only have one shot at getting them out, sir,” Ward said urgently. “It’ll be hard enough to get them out once you’ve reached the surface, but going back for a second group? It’s suicide.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Coulson said firmly. “Skye is taking the first group. Skye, take an extra icer.”

“And this knife,” May chimed in, and Ward smiled grimly, glad that May was making sure Skye got out first, armed to the teeth.

“Sir, your only other option is the stairs,” Ward said. “They’ll lock the lift once they know you’re down there, and they’ll surround you.”

“Unless we can get them off the lift quietly. Ward, tell me what you see on the cam at the surface level where the lift exits.”

Fitz reached out and switched surveillance screens for Ward. “One guard just walked past the lift door, but he doesn’t seem to be too alert,” Ward informed him. “It seems that not all the guards are aware you’re there.”

“That’s because I disabled their central communication system from my phone,” Skye spoke for the first time. “They can’t communicate, and they don’t know it yet.”

“Then you have a fighting chance,” Ward said. “If Skye takes the first group up, she can knock out the guard—there’s still only one man—and get the group back to the Bus.”

“Sorry, robot,” she said sardonically. “I’m just getting them out the front gate, and then I’m coming back for the next group. May and Trip and Coulson are staying here to keep the other scientists safe until we have the last group ready.”

Ward bit his lip. “Better get moving,” he said. “Coulson, three guards headed down the stairs your direction. One of them has an active com, but it’s not linked to the main com system, and the other two have fully in-operational coms. Take the middle one out first so he doesn’t alert anyone.”

Ward watched breathlessly as Skye herded the frightened scientists into the lift; waited through the agonizing minutes as the lift made its way to the surface, her tracker blinking at the same beat as his racing pulse.

A few minutes later, a group of scientists were running through the woods towards the Bus, and Simmons left to open the ramp and bring them in. Skye’s tracker descended again, and Ward watched with bated breath as she re-boarded the lift and brought another team to the surface.

“There are two guards outside the lift now, Skye,” Ward said urgently. “Get the night-night gun out.”

The guards dropped silently, and Ward relaxed again as another group of scientists exited the back entrance and made their way to the cover of the woods and the waiting Bus.

Skye made a third trip successfully, and then their carefully-laid plan went to hell.

A dozen guards descended, all with almost fully operational coms, and Ward heard again the sound of a desperate scuffle.

“Take them and go!” Coulson shouted, and Ward heard Skye’s muffled protest.

“They need you to get them out of here, Skye,” Trip shouted hoarsely, and Ward clenched his fists.

_Come on, Skye. Come on. Get out of there. I need you safe._

By the time Skye and the last group of science students had reached the surface, the lower level was teeming with guards.

Ward watched the live cams as Skye led the battered team of scientists, some of them carrying each other, out of the building, and resisted the urge to slam his shackled fist into the computer when he couldn’t get visual on the basement room.

The three green trackers were still blinking steadily, but they were surrounded by at least thirty red pulsing lights, and Ward grimaced.

What the _fuck_ was he supposed to do with a Bus full of kids and no leaders?

Coulson’s com went offline, though his tracker continued to blink, and then May and Triplett’s followed.

Suddenly, Coulson’s com went online again, and he heard a familiar voice speak.

“Fitz and Simmons, I assume you’re there,” a silky voice said. _Raina._ “And if you are, I want you to know this: we have your team. If you want them back, you’ll deliver the scientists we want— specifically, Allison Dean, Patrick Well, and Natalie Ruskins—back to us. You have twenty-four hours, and I start putting bullets into your team. Starting with Coulson.”

The com went dead, as did their connection with the security feeds, and Ward was left staring blankly at Fitz and Simmons, who were looking as if the ground beneath their feet had been torn from under them. 


	65. An Unlikely Partnership

Ward stared at Fitz and Simmons for what seemed like an eternity.

“Fuck,” Ward said dazedly. “ _Fuck_. What the hell are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Fitz whispered, looking suddenly close to tears. Jemma reached out and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll find a way,” she said gently.

“What way?” Fitz asked desperately. “The two of us can’t fight our way into a compound and rescue them, and there’s no way we can give them any of the students they just rescued. They would never want that to happen.”

Ward looked back and forth between them for a long moment.

Skye entered then, followed by three young women, all students.

“They’ve been taken. One of the scientists is getting the plane off the ground,” she said shortly. “We can’t stay here, they have guards scouring the woods. FitzSimmons, what’s the plan?”

“What can we possibly do?” one of the girls said. “That’s a secure compound. Nearly everyone in our group is injured, and you have two scientists and a…” She trailed off, looking at Ward as if he were the dirt beneath her feet.

“We can’t break them out,” Skye said. “And what do we have that Raina wants?”

“We’re not giving them Allison and Patrick and Natalie,” Simmons spoke up sharply, and Skye looked at her.

Ward used their moments of distraction to twist a piece of wire that had been lying on the desk into something resembling a pick lock, and when Skye’s back was turned, he removed his handcuffs in a blink.

He stood, hands free, and she wheeled around, gun drawn and pointed at his heart.

“This isn’t an icer, Ward,” she said. “I have real bullets, and I don’t have time to fuck around, so put your hands in the air and keep them there.”

“I’m going in,” he said firmly, his hands raised. “I’m going after them.”

She looked at him for an impossibly long moment. “And why should I believe that?”

“Because you don’t have a choice,” he said. “You have a bus full of scared, injured kids, and FitzSimmons need to take care of them. You can’t rescue the three of them alone. So I’m going in.”

“And why would you do that?” she asked suspiciously, her gun not wavering in its aim. “Why would you help us?”

“Because,” Ward swallowed hard. “Because I may be a Hydra shit bag who followed Garrett to hell, but Coulson gave me back my voice when I had been silent for six months. So if you don’t trust that I care about any of them, at least trust that I always pay my debts.”

“Skye,” Fitz said softly. The new scientists were staring at them, mouths slightly open. “Skye, we can trust him. _I_ trust him. Simmons?”

Simmons straightened, taking a deep breath. “Yes,” she said slowly. “I trust him. With this.”

“How are you going to rescue them?” Skye asked, her tone still hard with suspicion. “Just waltz in there and demand to see them?”

“Yes,” Ward said. “They don’t know my loyalties,” he continued. “And I have the advantage of just being able to walk through the front door.”

“Like you did at the Fridge?” Skye said. “Walked through the front door and shot those two S.H.I.E.L.D. guards in the head? Is that what you’re going to do this time?”

Ward bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, but he kept his expression neutral. “No,” he said quietly. He looked at Fitz, who looked up at him a little sadly, but with such faith it made him pause for a moment. “No. I’m trying another way.”

Skye smiled cynically, but she didn’t laugh outright and she wasn’t arguing.

“Fine,” she said harshly. “FitzSimmons will make sure the students get medical care and are kept safe, and you’ll try to rescue Coulson and May and Trip. But I’m coming with you.”


	66. Hatching a Plan

“No way in hell,” Ward snapped, and Skye raised her eyebrows. “You’re not coming,” he said flatly. “It’s not happening.”

“I just brought over a hundred injured students to safety,” she said. “I hacked Hydra, Centipede and Cybertek, and I broke into Ian Quinn’s house alone _twice_. I think I can handle this.”

“It’s not safe,” Ward said sharply. “You got shot last time you broke into Quinn’s house.”

“Oh, silly me, how could I forget?” Skye said sardonically, leaning closer so that she was inches from him. “Who ordered that hit? Oh that’s right—your favorite psychopath. No, I’m pretty sure the biggest danger to me on this mission is you, Ward.”

Ward bit his lip. “Fine,” he snapped.

“And I’m not giving you any weapons,” she said. “I’m doing this because I have no choice. Not because I trust you for a minute.”

“Damn right you have no choice,” he said sharply. “This is Raina we’re talking about here, and all I know about her is she’s no one to mess with.”

“Oh yea?” Skye said darkly. “ _I’m_ no one to mess with, and she’s going to learn that. Quickly.”

She stepped back, releasing the safety on her gun. “Simmons, cuff him until we can figure out a plan. Ward, hands in the air.”

Ward shook his head. “We go now,” he said firmly. “Raina won’t expect it”—

“Yea, because she doesn’t expect us to make the most dumbass decision of all time,” Skye countered, waving her gun at him. “Hands up.”

“We go now before the plane gains too much altitude. Parachutes. Above the compound. They won’t be expecting an aerial attack,” Ward said. “They’ll be holding Coulson and the others on a lower floor, that we can be sure of. Raina made the mistake of putting them in a room that had a lift all the way to the top last time.”

“Why is that?” Skye asked suddenly. “Was she laying a trap? And why does your compound even _have_ a setup like that? It seems like anyone could get in or out too quickly.”

“It was supposed to be a failsafe escape route,” Ward said, his look turning dark. “Garrett didn’t care if he lost an entire compound and the staff and guards if it meant he had a quick escape route. Raina thinks long-term. Big picture. She’ll be holding them on the lowest level, which would be one below the last level listed on the security system. It won’t have a good escape route.”

“So how are we going to get out?”

“By taking Raina hostage,” Ward said. “She may look at the big picture more than Garrett did, but when it comes down to it, she values her own survival as much as any of us do.”

Skye curled her lip in disgust. “So that’s it? We drop on top of the compound and fight our way down seven levels underground, rescue a probably-injured team, and fight our way up seven levels, where we’ll still have to run to find the Bus? You’re insane.”

“No,” Ward said. “That’s not the plan at all. We won’t need to fight.”

Fifteen minutes later, one of the scientists flew the Bus directly above the base, which from the air looked like nothing more than a one-level complex, since the other levels extended underground.

Ward jumped, pulling Skye with him before she had the chance to change her mind, and Fitz and Simmons stood watching through the pressure-locked glass doors, clinging to each other’s hands, their faces pale with worry.

The moment they landed, a guard pointed a gun straight at Skye’s heart, and it was all Ward could do not to tear him to pieces on the spot.

“I have a message for Raina,” Ward said, acting un-phased by the gun aimed at Skye.

“Stand still,” the guard demanded, drawing another weapon and pointing at Ward. “I’m taking you to Raina.”

“Oh, good god,” Ward said. “Why did they trust an idiot to be their sole aerial guard? That’s exactly what I want, idiot.”

And he pulled out his gun, unlocked the safety, and pointed it straight at Skye. “I brought Raina a present,” he said. “She does love her monsters, our girl in the flower dress.”


	67. Rising

“What the _fuck_ ,” Skye snarled. “We had a deal. You _bastard_ , you fucking _bastard_! I should have known.”

She lunged at Ward, landing a solid punch on his jaw before the guard dragged her back.

“It’s okay,” Ward laughed harshly. “I can handle this. Lead the way, soldier.”

“Yes, sir,” the man said promptly. “You’re Grant Ward, I assume? Garrett said you would be assuming control of this base eventually. We’ve been waiting, sir. Is there anything else you need?”

“To see Raina,” Ward said shortly. “And less talking please.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard said, opening the door and leading them down a staircase into the main level of the compound. He led them to a different lift, and Ward followed, half-dragging Skye by her arm.

“Stop struggling, Skye,” Ward snapped. “It’s over. You’ve lost.”

She stopped dead in her tracks, and stretched up to the tips of her toes, until her face was inches from his. “I’ll never stop,” she hissed, and he caught himself staring at her lips, how close they were to his, and her eyes burning into his until his very soul was singed. “I’ll never stop fighting, Ward. You should know that by now.”

“This way,” the guard said, swiping his badge and leading them into another stairwell following their trip on the lift. “Raina is in the interrogation room. Would you like to wait out here, sir”—

“No thanks, I’ll see her now,” Ward said abruptly. “Open the door.”

“She has three prisoners”—

“Who are also my prisoners,” Ward informed him. “I’ve got scars from one of them, soldier. I’ve got a debt to pay, too, and I don’t like waiting. Besides, I can’t wait to introduce Skye here to Raina. Two of a kind, I’d say. Raina won’t want to miss this one.”

The soldier pushed open the door, and Raina looked up from where she stood.

Coulson, May, and Triplett were bound, all kneeling in a row. Coulson was sagging, held up only by ropes suspended from the ceiling. He was barely conscious, and by the looks of it, May was barely better off. Triplett had fared the best, but Ward saw rage twist his face when he entered the room.

“You!” he spat.

“You,” Raina echoed silkily. “Fancy seeing you here, Agent Ward.”

“I’ve brought you a present,” Ward said, dragging Skye forward. She hissed and struggled and clawed, and Raina just smiled.

“Monsters together,” she said, and Ward remembered her words to him the last time he had seen her. “I’m glad you took my words to heart.”

“I thought you might enjoy getting to know each other,” he said sardonically, his lip twisting as he looked down at Skye. “And Raina, you should know that you have nearly a hundred of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s finest scientists devising a plan to rescue these three—now four—so we should move to a more secure part of the base.”

Raina raised her eyebrows. “You think they’ll be able to?”

“A team of four was able to earlier today,” Ward said shrugging. “I’d rather be safe than sorry. That was always John’s policy.”

“You mean before the G.H.325?” Raina’s thin smile curled across her face, and she brushed her hands down the blue-flowered pattern of her dress. “I don’t recall that he cared too much about safety afterwards.”

“And it cost him his life,” Ward said bitterly. “ _They_ cost him his life,” he jerked his head towards the team. “Bring them upstairs. There’s a cell in the east wing that will accommodate them… well, I think,” he said, smiling grimly. “I want them to pay for what they’ve done. Meanwhile, you can come and do your work on Skye.”

“Are you sure, Ward?” Raina cocked her head. “This girl you care so much about?”

“She hates me,” Ward said bitterly. “And I don’t need her. Do what you like with her.” He turned to the guard behind him. “Get them up,” he said. “East wing. Now.”

Five minutes later, a few soldiers had dragged the four prisoners to a cell on the far east wing of the complex.

Ward turned the key in the cell door, and turned to face Raina, the three guards, and the four prisoners, a smile on his face. “Are you ready to begin?” he asked her.

“Are you?” she asked, smiling snidely.

“Of course,” Ward said, and Triplett cursed at him loudly. “Raina, did you know that the room next door actually houses some of the biggest weapons—and even a few tanks—just in case anyone attempts a rescue mission? There’s no breaking into this cell.”

Raina laughed mirthlessly. “They’d be foolish to try,” she said. “Brave. But very foolish.”

“Breaking out, though,” Ward said. “That’s an entirely different story.”

“Now!” Skye shouted, and he turned on his heel, tossing an icer gun at her and landing his fist full in the face of one surprised guard. He threw the second guard over a table, where he crumpled and lay still, and Skye finished the other guard with the night-night gun.

Raina stared at them open-mouthed, and then a slow smile crossed her face.

“Ward, Ward, Ward,” she said softly. “I would never have guessed it of you, or Skye for that matter. It was a good plan, I’ll give you that. But what are you really doing, Agent Ward? Trying to save them? Or trying to save yourself?”

“We both know it’s too late for that,” Ward said sardonically, lifting one of the guard’s guns and pointing it straight at her heart. “We’re going to steal a tank from the next room, and we’re bringing you with us.”

Skye grabbed the key ring from one of the unconscious guards, and released Trip, May and Coulson.

“Skye, you cover Raina,” Ward said, handing her the loaded gun slowly. “I’ll carry Coulson, and Triplett, you help May.”

Triplett was staring at him with something that almost looked like respect on his face, but he helped May to her feet wordlessly. She swayed on her feet, her face pale, and Triplett lifted her off the ground easily.

Coulson barely regained consciousness, and Ward lifted him off the ground completely, staggering slightly under his weight. Months of imprisonment, bland food, and his fair share of torture had diminished slightly his former strength, but, if anything, had only sharpened his ability to withstand pain and conquer his own physical weaknesses. He straightened, shifting Coulson’s body. “Raina, open the door for us.”

Raina grimaced, but slid her key through the side door, and Ward led the way into the next room, which housed weapons and tanks.

“That wasn’t actually an interrogation room, was it?” she asked bitterly.

“It was once,” Ward said darkly. “Garrett set up shop in there a few times. Sometimes it was a debriefing room for me after I’d finished my missions, and sometimes it was an interrogation cell if I’d failed them.”

“So only _you_ were ever held in that cell?” she asked, smiling grimly.

“And I know it like the back of my hand, Flowers,” he said, taunting her with the name she hated. “Triplett, do you know how to drive one of these?”

Triplett grinned for the first time since Ward had seen him. “You bet your ass I do,” he said, and a few minutes later, he and Ward were each driving a tank through the doors of the compound.

And when Ward looked to Skye at his right, her eyes ablaze with hope—and a little mischievous joy at seeing Raina bested—Ward almost thought it would be possible to fight at her side again. At the side of a team he loved.


	68. Motivation

The plan had gone off without a hitch—so, of course, everything went to hell in the last few minutes. They were just nearing the place where the Bus was parked when an explosion went off, rocking Triplett’s tank.

The firestorm began then—planes shooting at them from above and soldiers behind—and Skye screamed. Raina made her move, and Skye shot her with the icer without blinking.

“Go go go,” Ward shouted, covering her with his body as she dragged Raina onto the ramp, where Simmons grabbed her and pulled her on board. Ward shoved Skye into Fitz’s arms, shouting at him to grab her and get everyone back from the fighting.

Skye resisted, of course, but Fitz dragged her back—not, however, before she had fired a well-aimed shot at one of the planes shooting at them from above, causing it to come crashing down so near the Bus that the flames nearly started to lick at it.

Flames spread rapidly across the field between the now-decommissioned tanks and the ramp of the Bus, and Ward ran through them, choking on the smoke.

“Coulson!” he shouted.

The man was unconscious, lying inside the tank still, and Ward pulled him over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift.

“Ward!” he heard someone shout desperately.

Triplett was down with a bullet in his thigh. He had been caring May, who now lay unconscious beneath him.

“Get them out of here!” Triplett shouted. “There isn’t time for us”—

Ward didn’t stop to listen, but heaved Coulson’s wounded body onto the ramp and ran back through the rain of bullets towards Triplett.

He lifted May first, and Triplett shook his head.

“Take her and go,” he shouted, wincing at the blood pouring from his thigh. “I’ll hold them off.” He fired rapidly at the soldiers who were still at the edge of the small airstrip, though they were approaching rapidly. Triplett flinched each time he had to move, but he continued firing, and Ward tossed him another gun as he lifted May over his shoulder.

When he reached the Bus for the third time, the guards—at least a dozen of them—had surrounded Triplett.

“I’m going back for him,” Ward told Skye, who had managed to fend off Fitz and rejoin him on the ramp to drag May to safety higher up. “Close the ramp and go.”

“It’s suicide,” she shouted, her eyes fierce and bright. “You can’t”—

Ward didn’t respond, just turned and ran towards the soldiers.

The first raised his weapon, but he was done with an icer in him before he could fire it.

Ward took them out systematically, two at a time, then three at once—two icer bullets and a simultaneous roundhouse kick—there were reinforcements coming, he couldn’t keep this up forever—but Triplett—he had to get Triplett out of here—the man was weak from loss of blood, he could see that—and Ward himself felt something warm and sticky on the side of his face—there was a man with a gun pointed at his chest and then—

The last soldier was on the ground, and Fitz and Simmons and Skye were next to him, Fitz helping Ward lift Triplett and Skye covering their backs while Simmons knocked out a foot soldier approaching them with her last icer bullet.

They carried Triplett over the threshold of the ramp just as it started closing, and they were safe—they were all safe—

Ward felt a bullet tear through his shoulder, spinning his body around with the force of the impact.

He fell where he had stood, on the battleground where he had seen victory for the first time.

“Grant!”

It was Skye who caught him as he fell.

“Grant!” she shouted again. “Simmons, we need another stretcher. Jemma! Now!” She said sharply, and Fitz was there, his face pale and worried as they lifted him onto the stretcher.

“I’m—fine—Coulson—how is Coulson”—

“Shut up,” Skye said, and he could hear tears crowding at the edges of her words. “Shut up and let us take care of you. Coulson will be okay.”

The loss of blood was getting to him, but Ward raised his head and saw a group of the scientists pushing Triplett into a med pod, and, farther down, May and Coulson both being attended to.

He tried to raise his head farther to see the extent of Coulson’s injuries, but a wave of dizziness hit him so fast he thought he would fall from the stretcher.

A steadying hand gripped his shoulder. “Grant,” Skye’s voice was annoyed, but her undertone was soft, almost gentle. “Grant, you need to rest. Simmons is going to stop the bleeding and wrap your injury, okay? The bullet went all the way through, so we don’t have to worry about extracting a bullet”—

“Skye,” he stopped her, eyes closed but a tiny smile on his lips. “Skye, I’m okay. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot.”

He could feel her stare even with his eyes closed.

“I figured,” she said softly, and even in his wounded state the words had the power to rip through his body like a physical force.

He felt Simmons’ busy hands cleaning his bullet wound, felt Fitz’s hand steadying his other shoulder, but it was Skye’s hand touching his.

Skye’s hand which stayed touching his hand after FitzSimmons had finished cleaning the wound and had gone to help the others, when Ward kept his eyes closed and pretended to be sleeping.

 _Grant_ , she had called him. _Grant_.

He held the words tight against his heart like a boon, like a treasure.

“Grant,” she said suddenly, drawing her hand back a long moment later. “You ran through fire to bring Coulson to safety. You ran through bullets to save May. And you went back for Triplett. Why?”

Ward opened his eyes and stared at her for a long moment. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think,” she said irritably, but her eyes were soft. “You’ve jumped out of a plane to save Simmons once, but that doesn’t mean you were loyal to us then. And why Trip? You don’t even know him.”

Ward looked at the bed holding Coulson. The man was awake now—battered and bruised, but awake and recovering—and talking to Simmons.

He looked up at Skye, finally, knowing he had his answer.

“I didn’t do it for Triplett,” he said. “Maybe I should have just done it because it’s the right thing. That’s why you would have done it.”

“Who did you do it for?”

“I owe a lot of debts,” Ward said. “To Coulson, to May, to Fitzsimmons, to you.”

“This wasn’t about debt, Ward,” she scoffed. “Even with Garrett, it wasn’t just about debt. It was because you cared for him in some sick, twisted way.” Her look turned dark, but she was still watching him, a softness at the back of her eyes.

Ward rolled his eyes at her persistence.

“Fine,” he said. “It wasn’t about debt. I did it for Coulson. And I did it for you.”


	69. Prague

“You took a bullet for them.”

Ward opened his eyes to see that it was Triplett who had spoken. Ward was still lying in a med pod, but Coulson and May had apparently recovered enough to be moved, and he was the only one in the room except for Triplett.

He was standing on his feet, but leaning heavily against the med closet behind him, his weight almost entirely on his good leg. He stared at Ward for a long moment, and Ward did not look away.

“Did Garrett do that for you?” Triplett asked finally. “Take a bullet?”

Ward closed his eyes, sighed. “Yes.”

“Prague?”

Ward looked at him sharply, and Triplett’s eyes were heavy with sadness.

“He dragged you out of a burning building, didn’t he? Under heavy gunfire?”

Ward sat up quickly, ignoring the spike of pain in his right shoulder. “How did you know all of that?” he demanded. “That wasn’t a standard S.H.I.E.L.D. operation. It wasn’t even a standard _Hydra_ operation. Who told you?”

“He took a bullet to the gut for you, but he still carried you to safety, didn’t he?” Triplett caused. “You woke in a S.H.I.E.L.D. med facility, and the doctors and nurses told you about how courageous your S.O. was. He came to see you, even though he was injured. They barely saved him, he told you. He showed you the Centipede plate on his stomach, told you it was keeping him alive. And he didn’t have to tell you the last part, did he?”

“What last part?” Ward demanded. “How”—

“That now you owed him everything,” Triplett finished. “And the only way I know this, Ward, is because Prague happened to me, too. Garrett just didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

“What. The. Hell.”

“I was in Prague three years after you were, Ward,” Triplett said slowly. “I was a new recruit, trying to live up to a legacy and trying to prove myself to a man who had reached out and taken me under his wing. I thought this would be the perfect mission, but everything went wrong—and it was my fault.”

Ward caught his breath. “I was in Prague six years ago,” he said slowly. “And everything went wrong. We figured they must have had a man inside and known we were coming, and I assumed I hadn’t learned my cover well enough—that someone had seen me and noticed.”

“They did have an inside man,” Triplett said briefly. “His name was John Garrett.”

Ward swallowed hard. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.”

“You looked at my file.”

“You know as well as I do that Prague isn’t in anyone’s file—not S.H.I.E.L.D.’s, and not Hydra’s. The only way I know this is because Garrett took every rookie he trained to Prague,” Triplett said heavily. “He staged the mission, and then staged its failure in a way that felt like it was entirely the rookie’s fault. He would fight bravely side by side with his rookie until the rookie was, eventually, knocked unconscious—by his orders, of course. The rookie would wake in a med facility, where Garrett would carry them, looking bruised and battered, and tell the doctors how the building burned—he had ordered it to be incinerated when he left to destroy any evidence, often with the hit men he ordered still inside—and how he had carried the rookie out under heavy fire. He would say ‘don’t tell him,’ and it just insured that the med team would think it their duty to tell the story of Garrett’s nobility.”

“That’s not true,” Ward said. “He wouldn’t have told you about Centipede.”

“He didn’t have to,” Trip said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know anything about Deathlok or Centipede. He just told me that he would need a cybernetic plate to cover the gut wound and replace the burned skin. I thought it was just like a prosthetic limb—a plate, instead of skin. And, of course, I thought it was all my fault.”

“No,” Ward said through his teeth, hating the tremor in his voice, hating the truth that shredded him. “No. It’s not true. It can’t be true.”

“I don’t have a reason to lie, Ward,” Triplett said sadly. “Up until a few days ago, I thought I was the only one who had been to Prague with Garrett. By chance I heard another man who trained with Garrett mention Prague and his debt to Garrett. He told me that Garrett was a good man who had saved his life in Prague many years ago, and that it surprised him to know he had been working for Hydra the whole time.”

Ward thought for a moment he was going to be sick.

_A lie?_

_It had all been a lie._

“There’s more,” Triplett said.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Ward said. “I don’t want to know. Don’t say it. Don’t. _Please_.”

Goddamnit he had been so stupid. So naïve. How could he have been taken in by Garrett? How could he have been so blind?

Garrett had been more than his S.O.; he had been a mentor, a father, a friend.

And now it turned out that he had been none of those this whole time.

“Ward,” Triplett said softly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You have no idea,” Ward snarled. “Leave. Get out. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear more of your lies.”

_Except they weren’t lies._

“I thought I owed him everything too, Ward,” Triplett said sadly. “I can’t imagine how much more you were devoted to him, Ward, especially after everything. After your family”—

“Shut up!” Ward shouted, lunging out of his bed and falling, weak from blood loss, at Triplett’s feet.

A hand lifted him, but it wasn’t Triplett.

It was Coulson, who had entered just as he had lunged at Triplett. “Come on,” Coulson said quietly. “You need to rest.”

“Aren’t you going to cuff me?” Ward asked bitterly. “I just tried to attack your golden Howling-Commando boy.”

Coulson helped him back onto the bed. “No,” he said, looking up at Ward’s face through his own bruises. “I don’t need to cuff you.”

Ward looked away, trying to control his heaving breath and his shaking hands. “Were you listening?” he asked finally, his tone harsh.

“Yes,” Coulson said briefly.

And he didn’t say _I’m sorry_ , didn’t make any comments about Garrett—in fact, he didn’t say anything at all, and Ward was, finally, grateful for the silence.

Because in that silence, Ward was finally able to find his own voice.

“Garrett never saved me,” he said, each word tasting bitter as ash in his mouth, but, somehow, paradoxically, sounding almost like freedom. “Garrett damned himself to hell and tried to take me with him.”


	70. Recovering

Recovery came slow for Ward. The wound was deeper than he had expected, despite having missed his heart by a good three inches and landed in his shoulder instead.

After his conversation with Triplett and Coulson, Ward asked to be left alone unless Simmons needed to come in and check his wound.

It was during one of those check-ups that Ward tried to get out of bed for the first time since he had learned the truth about Garrett and Prague.

“Are you sure you’re ready to stand?” Simmons asked worriedly, hovering over him like a concerned mother hen. “A wound that deep takes a long time to heal.”

“It wasn’t to my leg, Simmons,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“But you’re weak,” she said. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and your shoulder is still pretty… mangled. If you feel dizzy, sit down. Or better yet, hold onto my arm.”

Ward did as he was told, but found he didn’t need to. His head had cleared, and he could walk again—though with a shadow of a limp from the nail-scars still present on his feet from his fight, nearly a year ago, against Melinda May.

“How are Coulson and May?” he asked, trying to distract Simmons.

“Oh, Coulson’s fine,” she said. “And you know May. She was up practicing Tai Chi a day after she’d been injured.”

“What did Raina do to them?” he asked quietly, and Simmons’ expression sobered immediately.

“None of them will say,” Simmons replied, her voice subdued. “And when Skye hacked the footage to see for herself, she said it was all erased. But whatever it was, Ward, it must have been bad. Really bad. Coulson took the brunt of it, probably trying to protect the others.”

“Is Raina in one of the cells?”

“We transferred her to a prison in Lithuania,” Simmons told him. “Apparently she’s wanted there for more crimes than I can count.”

“I would guess she’s wanted in almost every country,” Ward said wryly. “I don’t know half of what she’s done, but if… if Garrett liked her, I’m sure there was quite a list.” His expression turned dark, and he turned away from Simmons, releasing her arm.

“I heard a little bit about it,” she said softly. “Skye was listening. She wasn’t supposed to, of course, but I can’t remember a time when that’s ever stopped her. Anyway, I heard and—and—I’m sorry.”

Ward didn’t respond for a long moment. “I should have known better,” he said quietly. “I should have”—

“Ward!” Fitz’s voice interrupted him, and he spun around, a smile on his face.

“Fitz?”

“Fitz, you’re not allowed to be here, remember? No visitors, Ward asked and Coulson ordered and you should know better”—Jemma began, but Ward shook his head, grinning.

“How’s Gerald?” Ward asked, referring to Fitz’s new monkey.

“Oh, Gerald’s wonderful,” Fitz grinned broadly. “He’s so useful, I can’t believe more scientists don’t have them. He knows how to bring me tools when I ask him, and he usually knows which ones, too”—

“He brought you the right tool _once_ , Fitz, I’d hardly say that was a pattern”—

“Jemma thinks he’s ridiculous,” Fitz said, rolling his eyes at her and slapping Ward’s good shoulder. “But you and I know differently, don’t we? Gerald is great. And do you know what, Ward? I looked up the S.H.I.E.L.D. research group who sent the monkey, and I couldn’t find them. That’s kind of odd, isn’t it? Oh well, it’s just as well I suppose. This way I don’t have to give him back.”

Simmons dropped a tray with a needle and several bottles of pills, sending it clattering everywhere, and then scrambled to pick it up, blushing conspicuously.

“Simmons?” Fitz said, and then looked to Ward, who tried to look innocent. “Ward? What don’t I know?”

“Nothing, Fitz,” Simmons said, taking the pill bottle Ward held out to her as they helped her pick up. “You know what we know. The research team must be off the grid.”

Fitz folded his arms. “Jemma Simmons, you are the worst liar I have ever met,” he said firmly. “And Grant Ward, you’re not much better. Where did Gerald come from?”

Ward shrugged his shoulders innocently. “You know as much as we do, Fitz,” he lied.

“It was you,” Fitz said incredulously, staring at Ward as if he’d never seen him before. “ _You_ bought me a monkey?”

Ward tried to shake his head, but he found himself grinning, and Fitz dropped the supplies he’d just picked up to throw his arms around Ward jubilantly. “You bought me a monkey!” he shouted, and Ward winced as Fitz’s enthusiasm met his bullet wound.

Fitz pulled back, apologizing in a breath, but still dancing back and forth. “I can’t believe it,” he shook his head, still grinning, and Ward grinned back. “You bought me a _monkey_. Jemma, he bought me a _monkey_. You knew? Why did no one tell me?”

“It didn’t matter who bought it,” Ward said, shrugging. “I just wanted you to have it. I don’t know much about science”—

“I’ll say,” Fitz and Simmons said, rolling their eyes as one.

“But I thought it could help,” he finished awkwardly, not looking at either of them.

Fitz slapped his shoulder—the bad one this time—and Ward winced. Fitz turned slightly pale and began apologizing, but Ward shook his head, laughing.

“I only want one thing, Fitz,” Ward said. “You have to bring Gerald to meet me. Deal?”

“Deal,” Fitz said, and Ward grinned.

_Standing just outside holding the room’s monitor, Skye looked down at the live feed, a tiny smile playing across her lips. It had just occurred to her that they had never known the real Ward—that Hydra Ward had been just as much a façade as S.H.I.E.L.D. Ward had been. And the real Ward, the one she saw before her now, had never smiled as brightly as he did today._


	71. The Cavalry

Ward remained in the recovery room for another week, with frequent visits from Fitz, who tried to sneak Gerald in each time, despite Jemma’s protests. It was at the end of the week when a different visitor came—the last person Ward thought would want to visit him.

“You saved him,” Melinda May said abruptly.

She had entered silently, her hands both firmly placed on the two guns in her belt, and Ward pushed himself to a sitting position, watching her guardedly.

“Coulson,” she said. “You saved Coulson.”

_I think he saved me first…or maybe I can’t be saved, but I know he tried._

“I don’t trust you,” she said. “I think you’re a duplicitous bastard. And I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done. I just have one question, Ward.”

Ward closed his eyes wearily. “What’s your question, Melinda May? Why did I turn into a Nazi scum bag? Why am I on this plane? Why haven’t I just taken the last jump to end my miserable life? So which is it? I’ve answered them all before.”

She stared at him, her dark eyes hard. “Are you serious about changing?”

“What?” Ward stared at her, taken aback by her question. His eyes narrowed. “Who said anything about changing?”

“You have a bullet hole in your shoulder that reeks of guilt,” she said curtly. “You’re trying to pay for what you’ve done. So how serious are you?”

Ward opened his mouth in surprise and then shut it again.

“I don’t think you deserve a second chance,” she said honestly. “And I still don’t think I did. After Bahrain.”

“Bahrain?” Ward scoffed. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You just did what you had to.”

“I know,” she said. “But when you have blood on your hands, it’s indiscriminate. It doesn’t matter if it’s good men or evil who died at your hand, the blood sticks. You can’t undo it.”

“So what are you trying to say?” Ward asked roughly, turning away from her.

“That you don’t deserve a second chance,” she said. “At all. But I don’t think second chances are ever deserved, not really. And I’m starting to wonder if you even had a _first_ chance.”

“I had a lot of chances,” Ward cut her off. “And you know what I did with them.”

“I know that they tortured you for nine months, and I know that I stole your voice, and I don’t regret any of that,” she said harshly. “I do not ask for anyone’s pardon. And I do not give pardons.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Ward said coldly. “You wouldn’t be the Cavalry if you did. Why did you come here?”

“Because Fitz and Simmons and Skye and Coulson deserve to have the person they thought they had,” she said.

“They have Triplett.”

“And he’s not you,” she said.

“I’m replaceable.”

“This team won’t be happy unless you make it right,” she said. “I don’t mean rejoin the team. Ever. But if you’re serious, if you want to pay for the past, then you should. I won’t get in the way. You have to make this right—not for your happiness, Ward, because I don’t give a shit about that, but for them. For Coulson and Skye and FitzSimmons.”

Ward didn’t answer, and the silence stretched on between them until May continued, her hand still on her gun, “And if I think for one second that you’re even _considering_ betrayal again,” her voice turned several degrees colder. “I will end you. Slowly. Cruelly. In every way you fear the most. I have read your file, Ward, and if you threaten my team, I will not show mercy.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he said, his voice blank of any emotion. “I have never expected mercy.”

“No,” she said. “You haven’t. But this is the only kind of mercy I know how to give: you have one chance to atone for what you’ve done. And I’m going to help you do it.”


	72. Coulson Speaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know. I've seen giants, up close, and that privilege cost me, nearly everything. But the good ones, the real deal? They're not heroes because of what they have that we don't, it's what they do with it. You're right...it matters who you are." --Phil Coulson, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. S1E1

May was the one who brought him back to his cell after he was sufficiently recovered, and she said nothing of their conversation. In fact, she didn’t say anything at all, just cuffed him and pushed him in front of her as they walked back towards his cell.

Ward hadn’t expected her to say anything, of course. He was almost grateful that she didn’t, actually. It had taken him a lifetime, but he was learning the value of silence; the way the deepest and most complete silence gave him the chance to find his own voice for the first time.

“Coulson will want to see you soon,” Triplett had followed them into his cell. “I’m assuming he wants to debrief about the mission. And I would guess he wants to know about the rest of the Hydra bases around the world, and what you know of them.”

Ward nodded. “Does he want to hear about Raina?”

Triplett shook his head, and Ward saw concern in his face. “No. He didn’t tell me what else, but he sounded worried. I guess you’ll see.”

A few hours later, Coulson came for Ward alone. “Come with me.”

Ward rose, holding out his hands for the cuffs, but Coulson shook his head. “No time,” he said quietly, and Ward paused at the urgency in his tone.

“Where are we going?” he asked. It was night—he knew that—and the plane had landed earlier that day, though in what country, Ward had no idea. “Are all the scientists still on board?”

Coulson shook his head, leading him through the door and down the hall, stepping softly. “Stark hired them,” he whispered. “All of them. But that’s not what I want to talk to you about. In here.” He led Ward up the stairs, but turned left before his office. Ward had never been in any of the other rooms on what they all referred to as “Coulson’s level,” but he had just assumed there was a bedroom, and perhaps an emergency store of some sort, and nothing more.

Coulson led him into a small room to the left, across from his office. It was an emergency store, of sorts. It had rows of vintage items similar to those in Coulson’s office, but more of these were weapons, and they lay about on the shelves in a cluttered, unkempt heap that seemed deeply unlike Coulson.

“Sir?” Ward asked. “What are we doing here?”

He turned to face Coulson, only to find that the man was holding a knife in his hand. He didn’t appear threatening, though his eyes were wild and almost a little confused. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, Ward,” he said, and his voice was shaking. “I wrote—I wrote this pattern. Onto the wall. With this knife. I don’t know why. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know what’s going on.”

Ward stared at him in concern. Coulson, usually so composed, was nearly shaking, beads of sweat standing on his forehead.

“I’ve hidden it from the rest,” Coulson said. “But it’s becoming stronger. I think May suspects.”

“But what is _it_?” Ward asked. “What did you carve into the wall, sir? What’s happening?”

“Here.” Coulson stepped back, revealing the wall behind him, which was covered in some strange pattern—figures and lines in an elaborate pattern that Ward recognized with a sick filling in his gut.

He had seen it twice before: once in a compound he had infiltrated while posing as Coulson’s former pupil Akela… and once when Garrett, driven mad by the synthesized GH-325, had carved it onto the door.

Ward looked at Coulson, who still held the knife in his clenched fist. He looked up at Ward desperately.

“I found it on the door when we took the Bus back,” Coulson told him. “I know Garrett wrote it and I was—I was hoping you knew what it meant.”

Ward shook his head, and Coulson’s expression plummeted into a despair Ward had never seen on his face before. “I don’t know what the pattern means,” he said. “I have no idea. I thought Garrett was going crazy”—

“And now _I’m_ going crazy!” Coulson interjected wildly.

“No,” Ward said firmly. “No. You’re not going crazy. What I was trying to say is that Garrett might just have been crazy all along. You’re not. You never were. I don’t know what this means, but Simmons, Fitz, they can help you. May can help you. They _want_ to help you.”

“I can’t tell them,” Coulson said dismissively. “I can’t tell anyone, and neither can you, Ward, but we have to figure this out. We _have_ to.”

Ward hesitated, considering the man before him. “Well,” he said finally. “What do you remember about the night you carved the writing on this wall?”

Coulson paused, struggling to steady his breath, and set the knife down on one of the shelves, not seeming to care that there was a dangerous weapon near Ward’s hands. “I couldn’t sleep well,” he said. “It was right after Skye uncovered the footage of… of what they were doing to you in the prison.”

A muscle in Ward’s cheek jerked slightly as he fought the memories. The pain had not been entirely un-endurable, since it had been nothing new, but the fear that had stuck with him—the stench of it in the blood and piss that coated the walls of the prison, the look of it in the dim yellow lights and the cold eyes of his interrogators, the empty feeling as he lay on his cell floor night after night.

“I thought it was because of that,” Coulson said. “Of all that had happened. But then… then I had this overwhelming thought. It wasn’t clear, and I can’t remember all of it, but it was triggered by you and the memory—the memory of Garrett on his last day. He said that I should understand his ideas because we were ‘blood brothers,’ and I just thought he was insane. But that night… I thought I needed to understand what he had seen. I tried—I thought and I thought and I thought and when I had stopped I realized I had written all of this on the wall up here and I had no idea what any of it meant,” Coulson concluded, smoothing down his suit in an attempt to restore his calm. “Ward—please—please tell me you know something that can help.”

“I don’t know what the pattern means,” Ward told him. “But Garrett didn’t have the same drug as you did, and it would have affected him differently, anyway. He didn’t have the GH-325; he had a synthesized form that Raina came up with. Garrett grabbed as many of the test tube drugs as he could before that compound blew, but none of them were the same drug used on you and Skye.”

“Then why do we see the same things?” Coulson asked wildly. “Am I… am I going to become what he became?”

“I don’t think so,” Ward said quietly, trying to calm him. “You didn’t see entirely the same thing, after all.” He pointed to the door Garrett had drawn on, which was leaning against the wall. “They’re different. And regardless, Garrett had the Centipede serum in him as well, and god knows what that does to your mind. I don’t know why you saw what you did, but… I think Raina might.”

Coulson nodded. “Would she give you answers?”

“No,” Ward said. “I sold her out and landed her in prison. It’s imperative that she stays there, too, or she’ll alert Hydra of my actions—I don’t think any soldiers at the base had a clear look at me, except for the guard, and I think he died in the gunfire—and I won’t be able to use any of my old contacts. But we’ll find answers, sir. You’ll be alright.”

“What if I’m not?” Coulson asked softly, and when Ward looked at him, he was himself again. Worried and upset, but that same light in his face. “What if I turn into something unrecognizable? Something barely… human?”

“Sir, a long time ago I was set up to take a shot,” he said. “I had been ordered by one man to put a bullet in Mike Peterson’s brain, and ordered by another to take the shot only if I had to. And do you know why I didn’t take the shot?”

Coulson looked at him for a long moment. “Why?” he asked finally. “Why didn’t you take the shot?”

“Because another man stopped me,” Ward said. “Unintentionally, I’m sure. He said that he had seen gods and monsters. That they weren’t that different, maybe, but the good ones weren’t heroes because of what they had, or what had happened to them. It was what they did with it, what they chose.”

Coulson took a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

“Sir,” Ward finished softly. “It doesn’t matter what the drug does. You told me… you told Mike… it matters who you are. Do you still believe that?”

“Yes,” Coulson said, squaring his jaw. “Yes. I still believe that.”

“I’ll find those answers for you, sir,” Ward promised. _And for Skye. The answers about her parents._

_Maybe this is my shot. My chance to do something decent for decent people. My chance to create instead of destroy, for the first time in my life._

“No one can know,” Coulson told him firmly. “Please. No one can know about me… or about Skye.”

“Skye?” Ward asked sharply, looking up at him suddenly. “What do you know about Skye?”

“Raina told me what she told you,” Coulson said quietly. “I was alone in an interrogation room for the first part of our imprisonment. May and Triplett were in a different holding cell—I heard later that May took down at least a dozen guards on her way to the cell because she thought they were taking me away to torture me. Anyway, I was alone with Raina. She told me about the baby in the Chinese village, about the massacred village, and… she told me about the monsters.”

Ward grimaced. “I’m worried about how Skye will take the news,” he said finally. “But I think we need the answers. So what’s our next step, sir?”

“Raina,” Coulson said. “We need to talk to Raina.”

Ward nodded. “You should take me back to my cell,” he told Coulson. “What are you going to tell the rest of the team about Raina and why we need her?”

“The truth,” Coulson said. “Partially. I’ll tell them we need answers from Raina, but I’ll tell them we need answers about different Hydra bases to corroborate your story before we can send in any teams.”

Ward nodded, and pulled open the door. What he saw stopped him in his tracks, and he felt dread uncurl in the pit of his stomach.

It was Skye, dressed in her pajamas, her hair loose and messy around her shoulders, staring at him as if he had, once again, torn her world out from under her.

She had heard everything.

 

**AN: I never leave these (sorry I didn’t even know until recently that this a thing most ff writers do), but I thought I’d ask for your thoughts… what do you think Coulson is seeing? What are Skye’s parents? And what do you think is an important point in Ward’s redemption that needs to be covered for an accurate redemption story?**

**I’d love to hear your thoughts/predictions. Keep reading and reviewing, loves! (:**


	73. Trust

Skye and Ward stared at each other for a full minute, silence and shock stretching the space between them.

“What are you doing here?” he asked finally, his voice laced with worry and fear and a little bit of annoyance. “Coulson and I were having a private conversation.”

“You’re supposed to be in your cell,” she snapped, and he saw tears building in her eyes. “How was I supposed to know you’d be up here in the middle of the night? I needed to talk to Coulson and then—and then I heard my name.”

“What else did you hear?” he asked wearily, the fight going out of his voice.

“You said something about monsters,” she said in a small voice. “What monsters? What do they have to do with me?”

“They were the ones S.H.I.E.L.D. tried to protect you from when you were a baby,” Ward told her, but she shook her head.

“That’s not the whole story, is it?” she asked, shaking her head. “Were… were the monsters you talked about… were they my parents?”

Behind Ward, Coulson was silent, so Ward answered her. “Yes,” he said softly. “Yes, they were.”

Tears were slipping down her face now, and Ward reached out for her instinctually, forgetting momentarily the myriad of reasons why his touch would be the _least_ comforting thing for Skye.

“Don’t touch me,” she said fiercely, stepping back and wiping savagely at her tears. “No. Both of you. Stay away from me.”

“Skye,” Coulson began, but she shook her head.

“What else haven’t you told me?” she demanded. “ _What are my parents_?”

“We don’t know, Skye,” Coulson said quietly, and Ward realized with relief that he sounded much calmer now.

 _Maybe people took care of themselves better when they had someone to take care_ of,Ward realized. _And maybe rescue started with loving someone else…_

“We’re going to find Raina,” Ward told her. “She has answers.”

“She’s a psychopath,” Skye said. “She won’t give us answers. And she deserves to stay in prison,” she said bitterly, her lip curling in anger.

“She’ll talk,” Ward said confidently. “Her pride is everything to her, and if she can’t share her “special” knowledge with someone who she thinks is important, it means nothing to her. And you, Skye—well, she thinks you’re important.”

“Why?” she demanded. “ _What_ do you know about my parents?”

“Skye,” Coulson said gently. “We don’t know much.”

“I deserve to know,” she said fiercely. “I’ve been looking for the truth my whole life, and I already told you. Nothing can be worse than what I’ve already imagined.”

“Raina told me a story,” Ward said. “And I don’t know how much of it is true, or why she knows so much when even S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t know what she knows. There was a baby—a little girl—born in a small Chinese town in the Hunan province just over twenty years ago. The whole village was destroyed in an attempt to protect the baby girl from a pair of monsters, and a S.H.I.E.L.D. team found the destroyed village and half a dozen dead agents, one of them still holding the baby girl, who was asleep in their arms.”

“I knew that much,” Skye said bitterly. “What do you know about the monsters?”

“We know that they’re your parents, Skye,” Ward said gently, forcing himself to look into her eyes even as his words robbed her of a little more of the light in her eyes.

She swallowed hard, and he wanted—wanted _so badly_ —to reach out and pull her close.

Skye brushed past him and stepped into Coulson’s waiting arms, and Ward breathed a sigh of relief, glad he had not attempted to hold her, help her—it was better this way.

He turned away from them. “We should all get some sleep,” he said after a long moment. “We can start looking for answers tomorrow.”

“You’re right,” Coulson said, squeezing Skye’s shoulder gently. “We’re landed outside of Paris right now. Somehow Hill managed to get us diplomatic immunity… of sorts…after we captured Raina, because they don’t like her much here, either. Tomorrow morning we’ll refuel and finish the flight to base.”

“Base?” Ward asked in confusion. “You still have a _base_?”

_No thanks to me._

“It’s called the Playground,” Coulson told him ruefully. “Not the name I would have chosen.”

“You’re the director,” Skye said, smiling slightly and rolling her eyes. “You could change it if you really wanted to.”

“He’ll never agree to that, and you know it,” Coulson said, his lips twitching slightly. “Now come on. You both need to get some sleep.”

Skye disappeared down the stairs first, and Coulson turned to Ward abruptly. “You’ll take care of her.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Always.” It was a vow, not a statement.

“Protect her? Even… even from the truth, if it’s bad enough?”

Ward hesitated. “I’ll protect her,” he said fiercely. “I’ll always protect her. But the truth? This is Skye we’re talking about. She’s going to find out anyway, because she’s Skye. And I’ll protect her from the truth if I have to, but I hope you’ll be the one to tell her. You’re the only one who can help her come to terms with that truth, whatever that is.”

Coulson surveyed him for a long moment, and then he nodded, a slight smile on his lips. “Good,” he said finally, turning away and heading down the stairs. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Ward followed, amazed again at how easily Coulson had dropped his guard. It sent a chill through him—if he was willing to turn his back to a man who had so recently been his enemy, and not only that, had betrayed him completely, who else would he put his faith in?

“Ward,” Coulson said quietly, and Ward looked up to realize that Coulson was at the bottom of the stairs, watching him shrewdly. “If you’re wondering if I take the safety of my team lightly, I don’t. I didn’t turn my back on you because I forgot or because I completely trust any word that comes out of your mouth. I don’t.”

“You shouldn’t,” Ward said. “You shouldn’t trust anyone, ever.”

“That was the first thing Garrett ever told you, wasn’t it?” Coulson asked as Ward descended to join him. “He was wrong. Sometimes it’s our trust that protects us.”

“You shouldn’t trust me,” Ward said roughly, looking away.

“I don’t,” Coulson said simply. “But I trust this.” He placed one finger lightly above Ward’s bullet wound, and then he paused for a long moment before moving his hand so that he was pointing directly at Ward’s heart. “And I trust this.”


	74. Ghosts

It would have been nice to believe those words, Ward reflected later. It would have been nice to believe that his heart could be trusted.

But the next day proved Coulson wrong, at least in Ward’s eyes.

They arrived at Coulson’s secret base the next morning, and the team exited the plane together, Triplett leading Ward in handcuffs as usual.

Ward would have been fine.

Would have kept silent, would have remained stoic, would not have betrayed emotion, if this was a normal base.

And if the man who met them didn’t have the face of a ghost.

A ghost Ward had killed.

_Eric Koenig._

Ward turned and then he had jerked out of a surprised Triplett’s grip and he was running, running, running back onto the Bus away from ghosts and death and memories that tasted like poison. He didn’t care where he ran, didn’t care what happened, if May or Triplett shot him while he ran, didn’t care about anything because when he looked down at his hands there was blood embedded under his fingernails, blood staining his palms and fingers, blood everywhere—

“Ward!” someone shouted, but he didn’t care didn’t care didn’t care—

He didn’t know where he fell—somewhere on the Bus—but suddenly he was retching, his whole body heaving, over and over and over again.

He couldn’t see—it was Prague all over again—he had just seen a dead man walking—but in his mind’s eye the Koenig he had just seen wasn’t alive and walking; in his mind’s eye the man who had met them had those bruises, the pouring blood, the empty look in his eyes—

He wanted to scream but couldn’t, so he retched again, retched until his body had nothing left to throw back up, and when it was done, he looked up for the first time.

He was just outside his cell, and he crawled back inside, his entire body shaking.

Was this what regret felt like?

He had now known that guilt was a physical weight, an ailment that hit his whole body with the same force as John Garrett’s fists always had.

It was May who found him first, as if she had known all along that guilt would sent him crawling back to his cell. She didn’t look surprised, and Ward wondered as he met her cold gaze if she felt the same guilt herself, sometimes. She didn’t speak to him, just called for Coulson and left. Triplett came before Coulson, however, un-cuffed Ward wordlessly, and left him alone in his cell again.

Coulson came then, with the other three, and he just stared at Ward for a long time with a mixture of pity and disgust that made Ward feel as if he was going to vomit again.

Coulson left without speaking to Ward, probably realizing Ward craved silence more than anything.

Fitz and Simmons, of course, both attempted to talk—small, inconsequential talk at first, and then each tried to bring up what had just happened.

Ward couldn’t talk to them.

Couldn’t look at the overwhelming sadness haunting their faces.

Couldn’t stand to see his own crimes reflected in their eyes, even in their compassion.

And after all that—after ghosts and running away and cold words that did nothing for the gaping wound where his soul should have been—it was Skye who stayed.

She came in behind Coulson, and after FitzSimmons had awkwardly said their goodbyes, she came and sat down in front of him, cross-legged, facing him silently.

He stayed where he was, seated on his cot, staring into space, but she stayed with him.

He didn’t realize that the cuffs—thought Triplett had unlocked them—were still sitting on his wrists until Skye reached out and removed them, letting them clatter onto the concrete floor between them.

Ward jumped when her hand brushed his skin, but still, Skye said nothing.

Time passed between them silently, slowly, and Ward welcomed it.

Welcomed the quiet.

Because finally, after Skye had sat there, waiting, for an eternity, Ward had the courage to speak.

“How?” he rasped, his voice hoarse and grating against the silence of the cell.

“Billy,” she spoke finally, her voice soft. “Eric’s brother.”

Ward nodded, the shred of hope that had risen in his chest falling to nothing. “I had hoped”—

“I know.”

Ward stared at his hands.

He couldn’t see the blood anymore—knew it hadn’t been there this morning, not really—but he felt it to his bones.

And he was so, so tired.

“Do you want me to clean up—out there?”

“Simmons took care of it,” Skye told him quietly.

Ward glanced down, and caught sight of his wrists, reddened and swollen. When he had run earlier that morning, he had still been cuffed, and he supposed he must have strained them when he fell.

He looked away, welcoming the silence that enveloped them again.

A moment later, he felt a light touch on his wrists.

It was Skye, reaching out for him, her dark hair falling forward over her shoulders as she took his wrists in hers, gently massaging them in her hands.

She said nothing, and he made no attempt to break the silence, just let her stay there, her hands on his wrists.

And somehow, in a world where he had both been broken and done his fair share of breaking, this was enough.


	75. The Cage and the Choice

“We told Billy.”

It was later that night, and Coulson stood in the doorway to Ward’s cell on the Bus. His face was impassive.

“He doesn’t want to see you, naturally. You’ll be staying on the plane during the duration of our visit.”

Ward nodded.

“We leave tonight. We’ll be going back to Lithuania and negotiating an interrogation with Raina, because of the questions we have about the… other bases,” Coulson said, and Ward understood that Coulson didn’t want to talk about the GH-325.

He nodded again. “Does May know?”

“That we leave tomorrow? No. I haven’t talked to her about it yet,” Coulson answered, and Ward knew he was telling him that he hadn’t talked to her about the GH-325 and the strange writing on the wall in Coulson’s storage bunker.

Coulson left him alone a few minutes later, and Ward sat staring forward blankly, feeling empty and desolate.

The door opened a moment later, and Ward looked up to see May.

She stared down at him, her face impassive.

“What are you doing?” she asked finally, her voice cold.

He raised his eyebrows. “Well, if it wasn’t obvious, I’m sitting in a cell, so not much.”

“No,” she said. “Today. What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Obviously.”

“Why are you here?”

“You want to change,” she said. “You want to make things right, as much as they _can_ be made right. So what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Ward asked, irritated.

“You’re guilty,” she said. “We all know that. _You_ know that. So why are you still moping about it?”

He scowled at her. “I’m not moping”—

“Get off your ass,” she said. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start doing something to make it right.”

Ward hesitated for a long moment. “What _can_ I do?” he asked finally. “I’m in a cell. I don’t have a chance to fix any of this.”

“For a start, you can stop crawling back to the cell whenever something happens,” she said. “You were the one who locked yourself up here today. So stop. Stop choosing a cage.”

Ward stared at her silently for a long moment, and then stood slowly, straightening to his full height. “So what is my choice?” he asked quietly. “What is my choice, if not a cage?”

“That’s up to you,” she said coolly. “It’s time to make your own choices, Ward.”

Then she turned on her heel and left as abruptly as she had come, shutting the door behind her.

Ward stood alone in his cell, but stood tall, and thought of Skye.

And realized he had already made a choice.

 

_The next day. A secure prison, Lithuania._

Coulson had asked May and Triplett stay on the Bus with FitzSimmons while he and Skye interrogated Raina, but when they found out Coulson was taking Ward with him, May insisted on coming with.

Raina was waiting in a small interrogation cell when they arrived, and she smiled when Ward entered, that sickly sweet smile that twisted across her whole face.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said softly, bitterness lacing her words. “What is this, Grant? You’re selling out Garrett’s people as soon as he’s gone? Are you trying to run away from the monster inside you, Grant Ward? Because we both know that’s not quite possible. Not for you.”

“I’m not here to talk about myself, Flowers,” Ward said coldly, pacing slowly in front of her.

“Of course you’re not,” she said. “You’re here to ask their questions, and you think if you do it just right, they’ll let you out of the cage. But Ward… you’re a prisoner in this cell as much as I am. Did they lead you in handcuffed or did the Cavalry just hold a gun to your back?”

“Neither,” he said. “I want to know about Bangkok. Havana. And Prague.”

Her smiled widened at the bitter note in his voice when he said the name of the third city. “You found out about Prague, Ward?”

“Bangkok, Raina,” he said curtly. “Tell me about it. Everything. Layout, guards, purpose. What will we find there?”

“They,” she corrected. “You mean what will _they_ find there? You’re still a prisoner, Ward.”

“Last I checked, you’re the one in a high-security prison.”

“Oh, that’s right, your precious _Skye_ and her team broke you out of the American prison, isn’t that right?” she said, her voice laced with venom. “Don’t tell me you think for a minute they won’t send you back there when they’re done with you.”

“I would expect them to,” Ward said coldly, wondering what was going through Coulson’s mind as he watched from the other side of the glass. “But for the time being, I’m the one asking the questions. And I’m also the one in charge of causing you pain if you don’t answer them, Raina, and you and I both know I’m very familiar with pain.”

“Not necessarily with causing it,” she retorted. “I watched you stand and take a beating from a man you could have destroyed. I watched you let every prisoner Garrett released from the Fridge take a shot at you because Garrett convinced you that you deserved it. You might understand pain, Ward, but I don’t think you have much experience inflicting it.”

Ward lunged and dragged her forward, lifting her so her face was inches from his and her toes were just barely brushing the ground. “You answer the questions I ask you,” he hissed through his teeth. “You answer them or I will make you wish I had killed when I found you in the Hydra base.”

Raina’s eyes widened, and he could feel her pulse speeding up under his grip.

He smiled bitterly. “Start talking,” he said. “Bangkok. Havana. Prague.”

The com Coulson had given him buzzed in his pocket, the signal that Melinda May had left and he could ask about the GH-325, and he shoved Raina back into the chair.

“But first,” he said, his voice hard. “You’re going to tell me about the GH-325. And then you’re going to tell me about Skye.”

A slow smile unfurled across Raina’s face, and she seemed to regain her composure. “You’re here about the monsters,” she said softly, her look triumphant. “Is she here today? Watching us right now?”

Ward reached forward and bent back three of the fingers on her right hand. “I can break these,” he said roughly. “And you know I will. I may be on Coulson’s side, but you were right about me, Raina. I’ve always been a monster.”

“It’s Prague,” she winced, breaking her silence. “It’s all in Prague.”

“What about Prague?”

“The monsters,” she said. “Garrett had at least half a dozen facilities in and around Prague. When he was worried about a recruit’s loyalty, he would take them there and make some sacrifice play for them, all while insuring his own safety.”

“What does that have to do with the GH-325? And Skye?” Ward demanded, not loosening his group on her fingers.

“Garrett knew the monsters,” Raina said quietly. “They’re in Prague, in one of his surviving facilities.”

“Location coordinates,” he ordered, and she gave them up reluctantly, only after he bent her fingers farther back.

“And the GH-325,” he said. “What did it do to Garrett’s mind? What did he see?”

“Everything,” she said softly, wonder filling her dark eyes at the memory. “He saw things we cannot imagine.”

“Well, try to imagine them,” Ward ordered sharply. “Or I will _break_ you.”

His com buzzed again, signaling that Coulson and Skye were not going to be the only ones watching much longer.

“Bangkok,” he said shortly. “And you need to tell me about the guards, the base, the weapons they have. Go.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, realization dawning on her face as she saw the outline of the com in his pocket.

“I can see it,” she said, her voice laced with poisonous sweetness. “I can see your truth, Grant Ward, your desperate, ugly truth. You don’t think you’ll ever be anything but a monster, do you? But you don’t mind anymore—you don’t mind being a monster if it means being _their_ monster.”

“You’re right,” he spit, leaning down so that his face was close to hers again. “I would do anything to fix the shit I’ve done, even if I can never be fixed. And if that makes me a monster, Raina, then yes, I would rather be their monster.” 


	76. Small Steps

They led Ward back to the Bus in silence.

“There was no security breach,” May said finally, just as they reached the ramp. “I checked out an empty threat. And the two of you didn’t move while I was gone.”

Coulson looked at her. “Melinda”—

“I thought we were past this,” she said sharply. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

Coulson and Skye exchanged a look.

“Do FitzSimmons and Triplett know?” May asked. “About whatever this is?”

“It’s nothing,” Coulson said.

“Does _he_ know?” Her cold voice was laced with hurt.

She turned on Ward. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Ward didn’t answer, and May shoved him onto the ramp.

Ward stumbled slightly, and Skye caught his arm to keep him from falling.

He jumped at her touch, and looked up at her. She looked at him briefly, her dark eyes fierce, and she nodded slightly.

“It was about me,” Skye admitted softly. “I didn’t want to tell anyone about… about my parents.”

“What about them?” May asked sharply.

“Raina knows where her mother is,” Ward said for Skye when she closed her mouth, her eyes filling suddenly. “And Raina seems to think her mother is… is something out of the ordinary.”

“A monster,” Skye said harshly. “My parents are monsters.”

May’s eyes softened, and she took Skye’s arm, guiding her away from Coulson and Ward. “Get him back to his cell,” she called over her shoulder. “We’re leaving in ten. Come on, Skye. You can join me in the cockpit and tell me about it.”

May put an arm over Skye’s shoulders, and Ward felt grateful once again that Skye had someone who would not only protect her, but who loved her as fiercely and wordlessly as May did.

Coulson watched them go and then turned to Ward. “I’m glad she doesn’t know,” he said quietly. “About the GH-325. She would be worried sick, and you haven’t seem Melinda May when she’s worried—worried and _angry_.”

Ward smiled wryly, his fingers tracing the scar near his throat that remained from his nearly fractured larynx. “I know a little bit about the angry part.”

Coulson looked at him sadly. “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, and Ward narrowed his eyes in confusion. “I’m not sorry she caught you. But I’m sorry she robbed you of your voice.”

Ward shrugged. “You learn things in the silence,” he said casually. “You learn the value of words. And you learn how much your own voice means.”

“The first word you spoke afterwards,” Coulson said unexpectedly. “It was her name, wasn’t it? It was Skye’s name.”

Ward nodded, looking away.

“You’ll keep her safe,” Coulson said, and it wasn’t a request, but Ward nodded again anyway. “No matter what happens in Prague. No matter what we uncover. And no matter what you uncover about Garrett.”

“Yes, sir,” Ward said. “No matter what. I do what needs to be done.”

Coulson led him to the main hub of the plane.

“Sir? Where are we going?”

“You’re going back to your bunk,” Coulson said firmly. “I don’t need the cell anymore. And neither do you.”

Ward’s throat clenched with emotion. “Sir”—

“May will have my ass for this,” Coulson said, smiling faintly. “But I’ve made my decision.”

Ward swallowed and nodded, following Coulson through the door into the main room, where FitzSimmons and Triplett were snacking on a bag of trail mix. Gerald the monkey was perched on Fitz’s shoulder, and Fitz was feeding it from his own handful of snacks.

They looked up when he entered, and Triplett stiffened slightly but didn’t comment.

Fitz jumped to his feet, and Gerald wrapped his arms around Fitz’s neck to hang on. “Ward! I was hoping Coulson would bring you here after you got back,” he said brightly. “We were going to play Clue. Do you want to join us?”

Ward smiled slightly. It was one of Fitz’s favorite games—and if Ward remembered rightly, it was the first board game he had brought with him when he visited Ward in prison.

“Sure,” Ward said, looking uncertainly at Simmons and Triplett, and then at Coulson, who nodded slightly.

Simmons gave him a small, encouraging smile as Fitz jabbered brightly and Gerald pulled game pieces out of the box.

“Fitz,” Ward said, realization dawning suddenly. “I thought you said you would bring those board games from your quarters at S.H.I.E.L.D. Why do you still have Clue?”

“Um,” Fitz turned bright red. “Well, I brought it back to the Bus one night and I… I must have forgotten to return it. You know, after we broke you out of the prison next to the base? I don’t think the CIA would want me back on the base after that, so I never… I never returned it.”

“You stole a board game,” Triplett said incredulously. “You spent a month doing research at a classified CIA facility, and you stole a _board game_.”

“Not intentionally,” Fitz protested, and Ward grinned.

“Sure,” he said, taking a seat beside Jemma and opposite Fitz. “Come on, Professor Plum, you’re not fooling any of us.”

Jemma giggled, curling up onto the couch and grabbing the pile of cards. “Come on, Coulson, don’t you want to play with us?” she said. “With Fitz’s stolen merchandise”—

Fitz threw an M&M at her, and it hit Ward instead, who flicked it back at Fitz.

Skye entered the room half an hour later, just as Ward successfully solved the case, much to Fitz’s chagrin.

“What are you doing?” she asked in confusion. “Why”—

Ward stood quickly, nearly knocking over the game board, and Triplett stood too.

“I’ve decided to move him to one of the bunks,” Coulson re-entered the room, watching Skye closely to gauge her reaction. “The one at the end.”

Skye opened her mouth and then closed it again. “May will have your ass,” she told Coulson finally, shrugging. “And his, too.”

“We’ll deal with it,” Coulson said quietly. He looked at her for a long minute, his eyebrows raised, and she sighed and nodded.

“We have something we need to talk to you about,” Skye said slowly, and Triplett looked up alertly, concern on his face.

Fitz dropped into Ward’s vacated spot next to Simmons, and together the two of them looked up at her, waiting, identical looks of worry plastered across their faces.

Skye stared at the three of them, apparently lost for words, and Ward instinctively moved closer to her.

She seemed to relax just slightly, and she squared her shoulders, gathering her courage. She looked up at Ward for a brief second, her eyes dark with emotion and secrets.

It sent a thrill through him, that look, and he realized he was no more prepared for those eyes than he had been on a sunny day so long ago when he had opened a van door and found her staring up at him.

“I haven’t been entirely honest with all of you,” she admitted slowly. “We’re not going to Prague to investigate Garrett’s former base or to look for leads on the Gravitonium. We’re going there to find out the truth about my parents.”

Her voice faltered, and Ward reached for her instinctively, placing his hand on the small of her back before realizing what he was doing and jerking back. Skye looked up at him sharply, and then, surprising all of them, reached for his hand and pulled it back towards her. “Don’t,” she said softly, and he saw something else conflicting with all of the old anger in her eyes. “Stay.”

And he did.

He stayed at her side, his hand supporting her, as she shouldered her way bravely through an explanation of what they knew about her parents.

He stayed with her through the moments when her voice almost broke, when their team’s questions were too much for her.

And he stayed with her after Triplett and FitzSimmons and Coulson had left them alone. He sat with her in silence—silence, the gift she had given him after his panic the other day with Koenig—and let her speak when she wanted to and let her take the long, shuddering breaths when she could not speak.

Grant Ward stayed with Skye—stayed until the enormity of her search and what she might find overcame her, stayed with her while she wept, stayed with her until the darkness filled up her eyes and she sat still and silent, holding onto his hands as if they were the only things holding her to life.

It was early morning when the plane began to descend to an air strip outside of Prague, and still he stayed at her side and massaged her hands in his and refused to let her fear and her emptiness consume her.

And when she finally spoke, it was as the sun began to flood the room where they sat.

“Grant,” she said softly, her dark, wild eyes meeting his. “Grant, I’m afraid.”

And for the first time in his life, Grant Ward didn’t think of bonds or orders, of debts or loyalty, but of a different reason. A better one. And he promised himself he would be there at Skye’s side until the day when she no longer had to be afraid.

The sunlight spread across the room, kissing her skin, and she reached a tentative hand up to touch his face, erasing the shades of old bruises, tracing his scar gently. And her touch, so distant yet so intimate, felt like hope—wild, wild hope that made him realize how devastatingly wrong he had been for so long.

What he felt now, looking down at her, was not weakness.

It was strength, and slowly, gently, but surely, it was beginning to wipe out the wrongs of his yesterdays as he prepared to face the darkness of Skye’s tomorrows.


	77. Mǔqīn: Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mǔqīn de xīnzàng shì zài dǐbù, qízhōng nǐ zǒng huì dédào kuānshù shēnyuān."
> 
> (Rough translation into the Chinese, my deepest apologies to any of you who speak this; my grasp on your lovely language is severely limited).

_“It can’t be worse than anything I’ve already imagined,” Skye had told Coulson once._

_“It is,” Coulson had said._

If only they had known then how true the words would prove to be.

They landed just outside of the city at dawn, at the coordinates of an airstrip Coulson had on the black box Fury had given him. It was a small airstrip and a long warehouse with a transport and a small weapon store that could only be unlocked by Coulson’s voice override.

“It’s amazing what Fury has,” Coulson said, tucking an extra pistol into his belt. “In almost every major city, he has warehouses, safe-houses, and even bases…and they’re all set to unlock only to my command.”

“Fury’s decision to hand S.H.I.E.L.D. over to you was years in the making, Phil,” May said, a hint of a smile touching her face.

Ward could see the pride in her eyes.

Skye was quiet—too quiet—as the team climbed into the van.

“Okay, let’s go over the plan one more time,” Triplett said. “We cross Charles Bridge together, and then disperse. Coulson, Ward, Skye and May approach the location at the coordinates from behind, and FitzSimmons and I scout from the van and keep you updated on the surveillance cams. Skye, you’ll hack the city’s CCTV footage before you split from us, right?”

She nodded.

“Skye,” Coulson said quietly. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

She nodded again, staring at the carpet of the van.

“And are you sure this is the right time to go looking for these answers?” May asked, hesitating before she dropped the gear into drive. “I know this matters, but how will it help us to know the truth about”—

“The monsters,” Skye said, rolling the word over her tongue. “My parents are monsters, and if they’re at one of Garrett’s facilities, they’re probably on the wrong side. They could be significant threats.”

Simmons, who was on Skye’s left, put an arm around Skye’s shoulders, pulling her into a quick hug. “I think we should go for answers now,” Simmons said firmly. “We’re here. We have a plan. And we have a lead, and that’s the first time that’s happened, so we should use it while we have it.”

“There is another possibility,” Coulson said. “This compound is in the heart of the city, and it’s possible that the Czech government will have worked with Raina to set a trap for us. God knows S.H.I.E.L.D. is still wanted in most countries.”

“I thought we were on friendly territory here,” Triplett said, looking up sharply as their transport van entered the city.

“As far as we know,” Coulson said. “I’m just saying there could be a trap. We have to be prepared.”

“And there’s another possibility,” Fitz spoke up for the first time, his voice heavy. “Your parents could have been Garrett’s prisoners, Skye. They could be hurt, so we have to… well, we have to be prepared. Jemma and I brought a med kit just in case.”

Skye turned pale at his words, and Ward’s hand, resting on the seat between them, inched across the space between them until his pinky finger just touched hers.

Without so much as looking at him, her pinky hooked around his, and they stayed like that, hands just barely touching, as they drove into the city.

Things seemed to go smoothly as far as the mission was concerned—no one tailing them, no law enforcement, not even so much as a suspicious glance or two their way—but Ward couldn’t help but relive every dark memory he had of this place.

Failure. A burning, falling building. Garrett’s arms, carrying him to safety. Raining bullets.

And even though he knew now that it was all a lie, even though he knew it had been Garrett’s ruse, it still felt devastatingly real to Ward.

“Ward?” Triplett’s voice had a note of urgency. He was sitting behind Ward, next to Fitz, and now he leaned up to speak quietly into Ward’s ear. “We need you to focus. I know. It’s shitty for me here, and I know it’s worse for you, but you have to hold on, okay? We need you to be ready for whatever comes.”

Ward felt Skye’s fingertip, still just brushing his. “I’m ready,” he said steadily, dragging himself out of his memories. “Whatever comes.”

On the other side of the bridge, the team split as planned.

Coulson, May, Skye and Ward arrived at the compound from the back as planned.

It was in a well-trafficked area of the city, a small, relatively new building that looked as if it housed labs of some sort. It looked deserted from the outside, but Ward guessed that three stories visible above ground were not nearly the extent of the building.

“May, you and I scout from the right. Skye, Ward, coms on. We need to be able to communicate,” Coulson said tersely. “FitzSimmons, do you have the surveillance cams inside?”

“They’re on,” Triplett’s voice answered for them. “There’s no one on the top three floors, but there is a door on the first floor that looks like it leads to a lower floor. There’s no cams on any lower floor, so we have no way of knowing how deep this place goes.”

“We’re going in,” Coulson said, and Skye squared her shoulders.

“Skye, Ward, you’ll be going in. Are you ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Ward responded automatically, and Skye nodded.

“The security is disabled,” Triplett’s voice guided them. “Use the door on the right. Try not to leave any prints, just in case.”

They moved silently through the building, May and Coulson scouting the top floors as Ward and Skye made their way to the door Triplett had told them about.

“Skye?” Ward asked softly. “Are you sure about this?”

She bit her lip, but when she looked up at him, her gaze was steady. “I’m sure,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for this day my whole life.”

Ward pushed open the door, his icer raised, and Skye followed, carrying two guns of her own.

The door led to a stairwell—only one flight—that led them to a doorway that looked starkly different than the rest of the building. Where the rest of the building had looked relatively new, completely empty, and very clean, this door was grimy, dusty, old.

It hadn’t been opened in years.

“It must be empty,” Ward whispered, but Skye shook her head.

“There still might be answer.”

Ward pushed open the door and they entered, guns raised as they had entered the stairwell.

The room they entered was completely dark, and Ward shone his flashlight into the shadows. The room was completely empty, but when Ward turned back to the door, he saw an inscription scrawled in messy letters over the door. Skye saw it too, and turned to him.

“You’re the robot who knows like sixty languages,” she said, her attempt at saying something lighthearted falling flat against the apprehension in her voice. “What does it say?”

"Mǔqīn de xīnzàng shì zài dǐbù, qízhōng nǐ zǒng huì dédào kuānshù shēnyuān," Ward read softly.

“What does it mean?” Skye asked in a hushed voice.

“It’s Chinese, and it’s a hard line to translate to English,” he said, “But roughly it translates to ‘the mother’s heart is the deepest abyss, and at the bottom, always forgiveness.’”

“Why is it here?” she asked breathlessly.

Ward shook his head slowly, but he didn’t get a chance to respond.

“Because you’re mother’s here,” a low voice said, and Skye and Ward whirled around as one. “I’ve waited for this day a long time, Skye.”

The shadows obscured the speaker, and Ward pushed Skye behind him slightly, his gun raised.

“Put the gun away, boy,” the voice said again. It was deep, almost like a man’s, but with an odd quality about that sent a chill down Ward’s spine. The figure stepped forward, and it was tall, as tall as he was, and it looked… well, human but not quite human. It had humanoid skin to an extent, but when it moved, veins of blue rippled across its skin.  

And the figure was filthy—long, matted black hair—and blood. So much blood. Dripping from its face, its hands, every fold of its tattered clothes.

Skye let out a sound that sounded like a mixture of a whimper and a growl. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice small but fierce in the long, empty room. “ _What_ are you?”

“Who am I?” the odd, hoarse voice asked, and a chilling, empty smile spread across the humanoid face. “I’m your mother, Skye.”


	78. Rénlèi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abyss. Paradox. Humanity.   
> Rén de.

_Shēnyuān. Abyss._

_Bèi lùn. Paradox_

_Shēngsǐ. Light and dark._

Skye staggered slightly, and Ward caught her with one arm, still pointing his gun at the figure before him.

“What are you?” he demanded. “Why are you here?”

“Is this him?” the figure asked, taking another step forward. The skin pulsed blue again, and Ward tightened his finger on the trigger.

“Is this your boy?” the figure asked, a smiled sliding across the filthy face, blood dripping from its lips. “Is this your Grant Ward? The bitch in the flower dress told me about you.”

Skye was trembling. “What are you?” she asked. “What am _I_?”

“You, Skye,” the figure—she, Ward supposed, as she had called herself Skye’s _mother_ —spoke again. “Are you wondering if you are a monster?”

“Yes,” Skye said roughly. “I want to know what I am. Tell me the truth.”

“And if you make one move towards her, I will shoot you where you stand,” Ward said coldly.

“Oh, Grant Ward,” she laughed, a high, garbled laugh that chilled him to the core. “I am not here to hurt her. I am Garrett’s prisoner, just as you were. Just as the one who gave Coulson life was.”

“What are you talking about?” Skye demanded. “Tell me everything. From the beginning.”

“Your people call it the province of Hunan,” she answered, licking the blood off her lips. “I called it hell.”

“Why?” Skye interrupted, and Ward placed a hand on the small of her back to steady her.

“Because it was where I was created,” she said. “And it was where I was destroyed.”

“What do you mean, created?”

“John Garrett never cared about science or salvation or aliens or gods or anything that interested the rest of your people,” She said. “He cared only for resurrection. And that’s what I was. His resurrection.”

“He’s dead,” Skye said bluntly.

“Good,” She said bitterly. “He killed me, you know. Just like he tried to kill you.”

“Were you… were you ever human?”

“I? No. I was never anything,” She said. “This body was Kree, and it died years ago. Garrett’s scientists used the regenerative science that fell to earth with the Asgardians to bring it back to life, but this consciousness? He did not anticipate it. I was his—what do you humans call it?—his Frankenstein. I am blood of the Inhuman, skin of the Kree, heart of the Asgardian, mind of the human.

I am everything and nothing, Skye.

I am life and death.

Darkness and light.

And I am your mother.”

“How?” Skye whispered. “Why are you a mother? Why—why”—

“Be careful the questions you ask, love,” She said, darkness filling her face so suddenly that Ward had to resist the temptation to jump backwards. “There is Faltine in me, too, and I have a drop of the Horde’s blood in my veins, so tread carefully, _daughter_. There is enough darkness in me to consume you.”

Skye stared at her for a long moment, and then, unbelievable, impossibly, her eyes softened and the fear fell away. “Alright,” she said softly, and the compassion on her face took Ward’s breath away. “Then just tell me your name.”

“ _Jūntuán_ ,” she said, her voice swelling and filling until it sounded deeper and hoarser than any man’s, and then falling again until it sounded almost as soft as Skye’s. “Legion. John Garrett gave me that name when he took me from Hunan and brought me here to Prague.”

“But what is _your_ name?” Skye insisted. She looked at Ward briefly. “Garrett acted as if other’s identities were his to give and take. He was wrong,” she said flatly. “So who are you?”

Jūntuán’s dark eyes turned black—completely black round orbs. Ward suppressed a shudder, holding his gun steady. And then, imperceptibly, they changed again, becoming nearly human, mirroring Skye’s.

“ _Mǔqīn_ ,” she said, her voice sounding sad for a moment.

Skye looked to Ward.

“Mother,” he said. “ _Mǔqīn_ means mother.”

Skye stepped forward slowly. “Mǔqīn,” she said. “I have been looking for you my whole life.”

“And I have been looking for you,” Mǔqīn said. “And now that I have found you, it makes goodbye that much harder.”

Skye shook her head. “Then don’t say it,” she said. “Don’t say goodbye. You can come with us, we can help you, I’m sure we can, there has to be some way”—

“Skye,” Mǔqīn stopped her, her voice fluctuating again, and Ward understood why Garrett had called her Legion. “I do not know who this consciousness in my body belongs to—perhaps there really are a legion of us in here, Asgardian and Kree and Inhuman and Faltine and Aarkus and Horde and shape-shifter. But I know that once in my life I was human, and it was the moment when I held a newborn child in my bleeding hands and cursed every god in every universe for the moments of my daughter’s life that would be stolen from me. I was human then, angry and desperate and savage and in love with the dark eyes that did not look like mine.”

Tears were running silently down Skye’s face. “If you stay with me,” she said. “Will you be human again? Will you have a chance?”

“No.” Mǔqīn shook her head. “Humanity was never my choice. I didn’t think it would be your choice, either, but you—you inherited darkness and turned it into light. You chose the _rénlèi_ over your nature, and I could only hear the stories. You have the universe inside you, and you choose compassion.”

Ward felt something wet slide down his cheek.

A tear?

After all this time, he was crying?

“Skye,” Mǔqīn said. “You cannot save me. I was never salvageable. Do you see the blood? I am constantly covered in it. It never leaves. And it is because I am the nightmare, the creature, the legion that was never supposed to be.

And I am dying.”

“No,” Skye said brokenly. “No. You can’t.”

“If I came with you, I would not absorb your light,” Mǔqīn told her gently. “You would absorb my darkness. Let me do one good thing—one human thing—before I die, and let me spare you that.”

Skye reached out a shaking hand and touched Mǔqīn’s face, her hand gentle as her mother—it felt strange to even think the word—flinched backwards. Skye’s hand was instantly covered in the bloody secretion coating every inch of her mother’s skin, but she didn’t seem to notice.

“You have been saving me all my life,” she said softly. “You don’t need to do this.”

Mǔqīn swayed slightly on her feet, and Skye grabbed her, her arm around her mother’s waist. Slowly, Skye lowered her to the ground. “Why?” she asked, her voice twisting into something so hollow and pained that it gutted Ward to hear it. “Why am I losing you now?”

“Garrett created me to save him,” Mǔqīn said weakly. “And when he died, when the guards left, when everything was gone, there was no medicine, no scientists, no treatment to keep me alive. It died with him. It is better this way—I wanted this last gift, to remember the day I was human.”

A small smile—sad and desperate and human—twisted across Mǔqīn’s face.

Ward knelt beside the two of them, mother and daughter, and wrapped his hand around Mǔqīn’s. “We’ll stay,” he said quietly, and in the near-darkness there was nothing but the sound of Skye crying softly. “We’ll stay until you remember what it is like to be human, because if anyone can help you remember that, it’s Skye.”

Mǔqīn looked up at him, her eyes growing darker. “You were Garrett’s monster,” she said, her bloody hand tightening around his. “He said that humans had the potential for the greatest darkness, but I have destroyed whole villages for this girl. What are you willing to do?”

“Anything,” he said.

“But you won’t,” Mǔqīn said. “Because she is teaching you to be human, to _cóng shēnyuān tōu tóngqíng_. It is a lesson I could not learn, even when I brought her into the world. You see what I see, Grant Ward. You have peered into the darkness and it has peered into you, and you know that it is better this way.”

“No,” Skye said stubbornly. “Coulson and May will come soon, and we’ll take you back to the Bus and take care of you. This isn’t over”—

Mǔqīn’s hand brushed Skye’s face gently. “You have found me,” she said. “It is all I could ask.” She coughed, deep and throaty, and blood—more blood, brighter than usual—appeared on the corner of her lip. She raised her hand, her index finger outstretched until it touched his chest, feeling his heartbeat. “ _Tā jiāng shì nǐ de guāng_ ,” she told Skye weakly. _He will be your light._ “And you will teach other to _cóng shēnyuān tōu tóngqíng_.” _To steal compassion from the abyss._

“Stay with me,” Skye begged, pressing her mother’s blood-coated hand to her lips. “Mǔqīn. Please. You’re not a monster”—

“They do not call you a child of monsters because of me, dear girl,” Mǔqīn rasped, raising her head and staring straight into her daughter’s eyes. “No, the monster is your father. The monster is the man who saw the mutt of the universe, and when he realized it could not save him, he took from it the only thing he could. He fucked it.

I was not the monster,” she said, her voice cracking and failing for a moment. “The monster was the man who built me and then robbed me. Your father, John Garrett.”

She coughed, choked on the blood running from her mouth, and then placed her bloody hand over Skye’s heart. “ _Rén de_ ,” she whispered, and then she was gone, and Skye was weeping madly, wildly, desperately over the truth that seeped and bled from her mother’s pores.  

“ _Rén de_ ,” Mǔqīn had called her.

_Human._


	79. Strong Enough

Skye bent over Mǔqīn’s body, sobbing as if she would never stop. Ward touched her shoulder gently. “We can’t stay here,” he said softly, but Skye ignored him. “Come on, Skye.”

“I’m staying,” she said thickly. “I’m staying with my mother.”

The door flew open behind them, and Coulson and May entered, their eyes wild. “We have to go,” May said breathlessly, and Ward saw that they both had their weapons drawn. “We have company.”

“Who?” Ward leapt to his feet, fingers curling around his icer.

“Some Czech law enforcement,” Coulson said, his eyes sweeping the dark room and taking in Mǔqīn’s body in Skye’s arm. “Is this—who—what happened here?”

A man’s shout carried through the compound, and Ward shook his head. “No time to explain,” he said, grabbing Skye’s hand. “Come on, we have to go.”

Skye looked up at him, her dark eyes numb and empty. “I’m not leaving her here,” she said stonily. “You can go.”

Ward didn’t waste time arguing, but bent and lifted Mǔqīn’s body—which, despite her height, was unnaturally light—and pulled Skye to her feet with one hand. He carried Mǔqīn through the door, and Coulson followed, pulling Skye with him. May took the rear, and together they made their way back to the main level.

Six men in uniform were lying unconscious, and Ward looked to May. Despite the circumstances, her lips curled into a smirk. “They wanted to have some fun with me,” she said. “They offered me a deal in exchange for their silence about my intrusion of this private property. So I didn’t use the icer to knock them out.”

Coulson’s eyes flamed. “I would have killed them if they had laid a hand on you like that,” he said suddenly.

Perhaps it was guards’ threat against May, or perhaps it was Mǔqīn’s story, but as they ran from the compound, Ward still carrying Mǔqīn, he found himself immersed in memories of his own.

_Lorelei. Rumpled hotel sheets._

_Waking up from her spell to Melinda May’s fist._

_And shame._

_A lot of shame._

Their transport pulled up, tires screeching on the pavement, and Fitz dragged the door open for them.

“Get in,” Triplett shouted from the driver’s seat. “We have to go!”

Coulson climbed in first, and Ward pushed Mǔqīn into his arms so that he and Simmons could pull her into the back of the van. Skye, who had kept up with them while they fled the compound, still looked as if she was about to pass out, and Ward practically lifted her into the van before following her in himself.

May jumped into the front passenger seat, slamming the door behind her, and they were off, Triplett swerving through narrow streets to avoid the law enforcement tailing them.

“Do we have diplomatic immunity, sir?” Triplett shouted over the screeching tires.

“If we don’t get caught,” Coulson shouted back, steadying Mǔqīn against the back of the van. “Ward, Skye, you have a lot of explaining to do.”

Ward looked at Skye, who had crawled to the back of the van to sit beside Mǔqīn. She was pale—deathly pale—and she stared straight forward, oblivious to the noise and chaos and their possible imminent capture by a hostile foreign government.

Coulson looked at Ward, and he sighed under his breath. “This is Mǔqīn,” he said, and May whipped around, her dark eyes flaming.

“Mother?” she asked. “ _This_ is Skye’s mother?”

Ward nodded, but Skye didn’t respond, didn’t even blink.

“I’ve lost them,” Triplett interrupted, letting out his breath in a long sigh of relief. “Back to our base, sir?”

“Yes,” Coulson assented, his gaze still on Ward. “Skye, did you find out anything about your father?” his voice was soft, but Skye jerked as if the words had physically hurt her.

“Yes,” she said. “I found out about my father.”

Simmons crawled over the seat, nearly elbowing Fitz in the face, to be next to Skye. She took Skye’s hand in hers gently, not seeming to notice the blood and filth that coated Skye and her mother.

Fitz swiveled where he sat, staring at the three for a long moment. “Did you get to talk to her before she died?” he asked softly, and Ward could see it took a valiant effort to overcome his queasiness about blood and look straight at them.

Skye stared at him blankly, and then she nodded.

“It must have meant a lot to her,” he said. “My dad—I never got to talk to him. I know he would have liked to, and I’m sure your mum was glad to see you.”

“She said,” Skye began slowly, her voice cracking painfully. “that she was only ever human when she held me.”

Simmons put an arm around Skye’s shoulders, and Skye’s head dropped onto her shoulder.

When they reached the base, Ward carried Mǔqīn inside. Simmons and Triplett brought a stretcher, and he laid her out on it gently, Skye hovering at his side.

“You’ll have to make a decision on what you want us to do,” Coulson said gently, putting a hand on Skye’s shoulder.

She turned, burying her face into his shoulder, her body shaking with sobs, and Coulson pulled her into a hug.

Ward turned to Simmons and to Triplett, trying to clear them away so Skye could have the moment she needed. “You two should go wash up,” he said, nodding his head to the blood and grime on their hands. “Fitz, why don’t you check Gerald? He’s been alone for a few hours.” Ward turned to May, and she nodded curtly.

“I’ll stay here,” she said. “You go wash up.”

He left them in the long warehouse next to the transport and Mǔqīn, and as he reached the door, he saw May pull both Coulson and Skye into her arms.

 

 

Skye didn’t want to make a decision.

Didn’t want to let go.

Her fists collided with his chest when he asked her to let go.

He let them.

Afterwards, she sagged against him, her tears staining his kevlar.

 

 

In the end, she proved her strength.

They buried Mǔqīn outside the city, in a small green park away from the rushing people and the heart of Prague. It was on a hill overlooking a river, and Coulson found a small wooden marker to place on Mǔqīn’s grave.

Skye handed the wood to Ward, and Triplett gave him a small knife, and he carved the words that fell from her lips like a torrent.

_Wǒ de mǔqīn._

_Tā qiǎngle liánmǐn cóng shēnyuān._

May translated for FitzSimmons and Triplett, her voice gentle:

_“My mother._

_She robbed compassion from the abyss.”_

FitzSimmons and Triplett and May comforted Skye in their own way—a shoulder squeeze, a few words, a brief hug—and then they returned to the transport.

Coulson pulled her into another hug, and then he left, too, giving Skye a moment with her grief.

Ward stayed.

If he was good at nothing else, he was good at this.

He didn’t tell her things would be okay. Didn’t throw placating words at the open wound of her sorrow. Didn’t try to erase or change or pacify her grief.

He just stayed, silent, and shared her grief.

Staying.

Silence.

Sharing

They were gifts, all three of them, in their own way.

Skye’s hands were still bloody, and he took her hand in his.

“Thank you,” she said, and perhaps it was minutes or days or hours later, he didn’t know. “Thank you for staying.”

He wanted to say _always_ , wanted to promise he would be the one to stand at her side through all of the darkness, but he knew, now, how meaningless words like those were.

He was still paying back his own darkness, and there were stains that could never wash out, stains on his soul that carried unbearable weight.

Mǔqīn had known her own darkness, known that who she was would stain Skye’s soul, and she had kept her distance.

But what had she said?

 _He will be your light_.

Ward looked down at his hands.

Weak hands, perhaps. Hands that could not throw a rope to a little boy at the bottom of a well. Hands that could not save Buddy or FitzSimmons. Hands that had been weak enough to take precious lives.

Grant Ward could not be her everything, could not carry the weight of tomorrows and always and promises to stay at her side.

But perhaps these hands, if they were strong enough for nothing else, would be strong enough to carry this grief.

“Stay,” Skye said.

And he did.


	80. If You Could

After the burial, they drove back to the base.

Skye left to shower and clean up, and she didn’t come back.

At first they thought she just wanted to be alone, but when May went to ask her if she wanted to eat, they found the bathroom in the safe-house empty.

And she had disabled the tracker on her phone.

May went straight to Ward, fury in her dark eyes. She shoved him against the wall, her teeth clenched. “Where did she go?”

Ward raised his hands in surrender. “I have no idea,” he said honestly.

“She didn’t tell us much,” May said. “But you were there with her the whole time. What did she learn about her father?”

Ward closed his eyes, shaking his head. “John Garrett,” he said finally, defeated. “Her father is John Garrett.”

“ _What_?” Coulson stared at him, mouth open, and May backhanded him hard.

“That’s not true,” she snarled. “Our girl doesn’t belong to him.”

Fitz, who was feeding snacks to Gerald, stopped what he was doing, gaping in disbelief, and Simmons dropped the med kit she was packing all over the floor.

“When Raina said Skye was the daughter of a monster, she wasn’t talking about Mǔqīn. She was talking about Garrett,” Ward said.

Coulson opened his mouth and shut it again, utterly lost for words.

“We have to find her,” Triplett said softly, shaking his head. “My god. Fitz, can we check CCTV footage?”

“Go ahead,” Ward said, stepping away from May, who was still scowling dangerously at him. “I’m going out to look for her.”

“How do we know you’re going to look for her?” May snarled. “How do we know you’re not just going to run off?”

“May.” Coulson shook his head just slightly. “Ward, how are you going to know where to find her?”

“I know Prague,” Ward said shortly. “And I know Skye.”

May stepped back and let him pass, her eyes dark.

Ward remained on coms with Fitz, but otherwise he was alone.

He crossed Charles Bridge for the second time that day just as the sun was setting, and as he walked the streets of the city that had seen so much of both his rise and fall, he knew with sudden clarity where to look for her.

Ward found her in Zizkov, in one of the bigger pubs.

She was swaying on a bar stool near the front, half a dozen empty glasses surrounding her.

She looked up at him, her eyes blank and glassy.

“The others are looking high and low for me,” she slurred, a bitter smile twisting across her face. “But you knew I’d be here, didn’t you, Grant? You knew I just wanted to get drunk.”

The stool next to her was taken, but Ward tipped the man sitting there off, and the man—who, though drunk, was not drunk enough to realize that fighting Ward would be a mistake—stumbled away, cursing.

Ward seated himself and ordered in Slavic.

“You know a lot of languages, Grant,” Skye’s words tumbled together. “But I want to know how my mother knew them. Do you know that? Did she tell you? I only met her when she was dying, did you know? We didn’t get much time to talk…”

Her voice cracked, a thin sob shaking her shoulders, and Ward moved her half-empty vodka away from her, his hand brushing hers.

“Did they send you to bring me back?” Skye’s hiccupped loudly.

“Do you want to go back?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t bring you back yet.”

“Get drunk with me,” she said, and he smiled softly.

“One of us needs to be sober,” he said apologetically.

“No,” she shook her head, reaching for her glass. “Fuck being sober. Fuck everything. Let’s get drunk, Grant.”

And then suddenly she was bent over, vomiting on his shoes.

She was crying when she straightened, and Ward half-lifted her to her feet.

“Come on,” he said gently, his arm supporting her. “Let’s get out of here.”

Garrett had a half-dozen safe-houses in Prague—he had cut a deal with Czech authorities long ago—and Ward knew they would be unoccupied, so he took her to the closest one.

The safe house was nearly empty, but fully furnished, and Ward carried her to the couch.

“Anything to drink here?” she asked, her eyes closed.

“No,” he said gently, pushing the sweaty hair out of her face.

She opened her eyes suddenly, and they shone unexpectedly. “All those good people,” she said distantly. “All those good people looking for me, and you’re the only one I want to see.”

“Shhh,” he said, pushing her shoulder gently so she would lie back down. “You need to sleep this off, and I’ll let the team know you’re okay.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” she said, shoving his hand away. “Am I crazy? My mother was a mutt and my father was a killer, and I fell in love with you. All those people you killed, Grant,” she said, laughing harshly, and he knew it was the alcohol and the grief and that this wasn’t Skye, not really, but still it hurt—

“Did you hate them, or were you scared? I always wondered,” she rambled. “But maybe you hated yourself most of all. Is that true, Grant?” She was crying. “My mother hated herself because she was nothing but Garrett’s creation. Is that why you hate yourself? Because you were nothing but his creation?”

Ward rubbed an arm over his face. “Fitz,” he said into his com, trying to fight back the emotion clenching his throat. “Skye and I are at an old safe house. She’s okay.”

“Just drunk,” Skye giggled, but the laugh was choked by a sob.

“Yep. Just drunk,” Ward added.

“I’ll let them know,” Fitz said. “You okay?”

“Yea. Fine. I’m going off coms now, but I’ll see you when I get back.”

He cut the com link abruptly.

Skye was staring at him, her dark eyes unfocused again.

“She was more than his creation, you know,” she said, her eyes drooping shut. “She knew that before she died. Do you know that?”

Ward placed a cold cloth on her forehead. “This might help you feel better,” he said. “Or at least steady you enough so you don’t get sick again.”

“Nothing will make me feel better,” she said. “But my mom. She loved me, I think.”

“Yes,” he said softly. “She loved you a lot.”

“It’s dark,” Skye said. “It’s dark here. Is it always dark in this city?”

 _It is for me_.

“Not always,” he said.

“She said you would be my light,” Skye said, and for half a moment Ward wondered if he had craved this drunken honesty more than he wanted to admit.

“You have a light of your own,” he told her.

“But I want yours,” she said, and her words slurred again. “It’s how you rob the abyss. My mom told me,” she said, as if that made the words inarguable.

Ward smiled slightly. “You need to sleep, Skye,” he said gently.

“I joined so I could find my family,” she said, ignoring him. “You joined so you could lose yours. Did it work? Because it didn’t work for me, Grant…”

“No,” he said briefly, his hand brushing the scars over his ribs, the brand over his heart. “It didn’t work.”

“Neither of us chose Garrett, you know,” she said.

“I had a choice,” he said firmly, reaching out to brush her hair out of her face again. “Now you need to sleep.”

“Would you choose differently? If you could?” she asked, her eyes fluttering shut slowly.

He thought of the debts that lost boys owed, of the strength in Garrett’s hands as he pulled Ward to his feet all those years ago, of the day Coulson brought him aboard a plane called the Bus and changed his life.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I would.”

But Skye was already asleep.


	81. Truth Uncovered

Skye was still sleeping when Ward carried her through the doors of Coulson’s base. The team surrounded him, asking if she was alright, and Ward just shook his head.

“She’s just sleeping,” he said briefly. “I’m going to bring her to her bunk.”

The others backed off, and Ward carried her up the plane’s ramp and into her small bunk room.

He hadn’t been in this room since Garrett had had the plane.

It had been the day after Skye and Coulson had escaped from the Bus in Lola, and Ward had taken all the alcohol May kept in the cockpit and found himself in her room, curled up on the floor and drinking until he couldn’t feel anything anymore.

Ward placed Skye into the bed and retreated to the door.

Her breathing was even now, at least, and he wondered if she was dreaming.

He hoped she wasn’t, not after the darkness she had seen today.

When Ward turned to leave the room, he found Coulson waiting for him just outside.

“We need to talk.”

Ward followed Coulson up the stairs to his small office. Coulson, who usually seated himself behind his desk immediately, was pacing nervously. “What are we going to do?”

“About the GH-325? Or… Skye?”

“What _can_ we do?” Coulson asked, and he looked as if he was going to be sick. “John Garrett was her father. I can’t… what is she going to do?”

“What she’s always done,” Ward said. “Survive.”

“And the GH-325? What’s our next step?”

“We could go back to Raina,” Ward suggested. “Or I could work with you to make a complete list of known Hydra bases and begin infiltrating and dismantling them, targeting the ones with research divisions. We’ll find as many answers as Hydra has, at least.”

“But the GH-325,” Coulson said. “That wasn’t Hydra. That wasn’t even S.H.I.E.L.D. That was Fury—and me, though they wiped it from my memories when they brought me back after New York—and it was supposed to be used only in the case of a fallen Avenger. I don’t think anyone other than Fury knew the whole extent of the project.”

Ward hesitated, contemplating what Coulson had said. “Fury didn’t tell you anything more about the T.A.H.I.T.I. project? But you know that it was alien-based?”

“When we went to the Guest House with Garrett after Skye…after Skye had been shot,” Coulson’s voice faltered at the memory. “I was down there longer than the rest of you. I went back, into the room where they had operated on me. Garrett stopped at the room with the test tubes full of GH-325 variations—I’m assuming he filled his pockets with as many samples of the different drugs as he could?—but I went farther.”

“And?” Ward prompted. “What did you see?”

“It was a—creature of some sort,” Coulson said. “An alien. It was dead—there was only half of it there, but it was suspended in some sort of solution—and there were tubes coming out of its body. It was labeled ‘T.A.H.I.T.I.’ and the drugs were derived from its body, and whatever regenerative properties it had during its lifetime.”

“Garrett didn’t have the same drug you did,” Ward said thoughtfully. “He had whatever mutation Raina concocted—and God knows she might have altered it just to see what would happen to Garrett.”

“Where are we going to get answers, then, if even Raina doesn’t have them?”

“Raina always has some answers,” Ward said. “She’s known more than she’s told all along. She knew about Hunan and Prague and… Skye. She’s known about Skye this whole time.”

“I want to know how,” Coulson said suddenly. “How did she know about Hunan; that the village was destroyed by the baby’s mother? All S.H.I.E.L.D. knew was that the baby was an 0-8-4 that needed protection—I haven’t seen the file but I’m assuming it was Garrett that tipped them off—and then every agent with any intel from the op were killed one by one. I’m assuming Garrett ordered that as well.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Garrett didn’t tell me anything about this.”

“He told you what he needed you to know,” Coulson said. “Which reminds me. You were fifteen when Garrett came to you in juvie?”

“Yes, sir.” Ward looked away.

“Do you remember the day Garrett took you out of juvie?”  

Ward remembered the day as clearly as if it were yesterday.

_It was dark, and John Garrett came knocking._

_His words were loud and bold and brave, and Grant Ward craved strength more than he craved his next breath._

_Garrett brought fear with him first—promises that he would be tried as an adult, for arson, attempted murder—and then promise and hope and a chance._

_A single chance._

_And Ward had jumped at it._

“Yes, sir,” he said. “I remember.”

“What… what did Garrett tell you when he broke you out of prison?”

“He told me that my parents were pressing charges—arson and attempted murder—and that my brother was petitioning to have me tried as an adult,” Ward said.

Coulson looked as if he might be sick. “They weren’t,” he said. “They weren’t pressing charges. We… S.H.I.E.L.D. was interested in you. They’d talked your parents and your older brother out of pressing charges—threatened to bring charges against _them_ for everything they’d done if they pursued the case, which, in hindsight, wasn’t as ethical as I would have hoped if it had been my op. I was supposed to fly out to meet you and ask you to join the Academy on the conditions that you went through therapy and were on a sort of probation with us, pending your cooperation with us. My orders changed later that day—I suppose Garrett or another Hydra agent smoothed it over—and we were told you’d been transferred to a therapy or treatment facility. Then we got reports that you’d completed the programs and were ready to join the Academy, and I never… I never questioned the system.”

Ward felt his knees give out weakly, and he dropped into the chair dazedly. “I don’t—I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I was supposed to get there first. That I almost did,” he said. “What did—what did Garrett do to you?”

Ward stared at him in shock, but the memories ripped through his body at Coulson’s question.

_Empty, gnawing hunger that left him bent double with pain._

_Rain._

_Sleet._

_Snow._

_Loneliness._

_And that was before Garrett came back for him._

_When Garrett was there, it was worse._

_Knuckles, imprinted on his face._

_Thank you, sir._

_Cracked ribs._

_I’m sorry, sir._

_And the night, the night when Garrett marked him with the burning brand, a small line just over Ward’s heart that spoke of ownership and debts and lifelong bonds…_

“I thought as much,” Coulson said when Ward’s silence had hung heavy between them for several minutes.

“You were going to come for me,” Ward repeated dazedly, struggling to comprehend the enormity of what he was hearing. “They weren’t pressing charges, and you were going to come for me.”

“We failed you,” Coulson said, his voice breaking. “ _I_ failed you. And I’m so sorry, Grant. I’m so sorry.”


	82. This Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass." --J. R. R. Tolkien.

Coulson led him back downstairs, and Ward went straight to his bunk, still reeling from the information.

May was waiting for him just inside. “Was Coulson right?”

“About what?” he asked numbly.

“What Garrett said to you,” she said bluntly. “When he found you fifteen years ago.”

“Yes,” he said harshly. “Why are you here, Melinda May? To laugh at how blind I was for so many years? How after all the years I lied and pretended, the thing I thought I was chasing was nothing but a shadow? It’s ironic, isn’t it?” His words tumbled over his lips before he could stop himself, but she didn’t react.

If anything, her eyes softened just slightly. “It’s disgusting,” she said. “It’s disgusting what Garrett did, and it makes me sick when I think of what you could have been.”

“Instead of this,” he said bitterly, staring at his hands.

_Hands that had hurt, that had killed, that had choked Eric Koenig until the life ran out of him in tiny rivers of blood, fingers that had pulled triggers time after time after time…_

It seemed strange to him that hands that had destroyed so much had ever been meant for something better.

“Why are you here?” he asked May again, and the look she gave him was as dark and as fierce as it always was.

“I don’t forgive,” she said bluntly. “Not myself, and not other people. I don’t give pardon and I don’t ask for pardon, and, Ward, I never forget. But I’m practical, too. And maybe it’s time I stopped hating the weapon instead of the hand that pulled the trigger.”

Ward stared at her.

“You were a weapon,” she said coldly. “You were never anything more than Garrett’s weapon.”

“I pulled my fair share of triggers,” Ward sighed, his body sagging against his bunk, but May shook her head.

“Don’t do that,” she said, and at his confused look, she rolled her eyes impatiently. “You know what I’m talking about. Don’t do that thing where you hold onto the past as if it’s everything you are. Fuck the past. I’m not holding onto Bahrain as if it’s who I am, and you shouldn’t hold onto Prague and everything else Garrett did to you. And everything you did.”

“What if you can’t forget?”

“You won’t,” she said. “Ever. But you have to take all of that anger and all of that past and _use_ it.”

“Use it for what?”

“You use the old to make everything new,” May said, pushing past him and exiting the room. She paused at the door. “Whatever that looks like. Whatever it is you want to be.”

And then she was gone, leaving him with his fists clenching and unclenching slowly, and the thought that maybe, just maybe, her words were the truth he had needed all this time.

Coulson called the team together—except for Skye, who was still sleeping off her hangover in her bunk—to tell them they would be leaving in the morning for Lithuania to interrogate Raina again. The team was quiet and subdued, even Fitz, who had Gerald perched on his shoulder.

“The first step in re-building S.H.I.E.L.D. is eradicating Hydra,” Coulson told them all firmly, and for a moment Ward saw the Agent Coulson he had first met standing there. “And the first step in eradicating Hydra is finding out what Raina knows. May, can we leave tomorrow morning?”

She nodded. “Wheels up at seven tomorrow morning,” she said crisply.

Ward left the debriefing room, looking forward to having a real bed instead of a cot for the first time in over a year. He paused when he passed Skye’s room, however.

 The door was closed, but he heard a noise—it was the sound of quiet sobbing, and it stopped him in his tracks. He knocked twice, and when Skye didn’t answer, he pushed open her door.

She was still sleeping, but there were tears standing on her cheeks and it tore at Ward’s heart.

Suddenly, her entire body jerked, and she cried out in her sleep as if someone was hurting her.

Ward crouched by the side of her bed, shaking her shoulder gently. “Skye,” he murmured. “Skye, wake up. Come on, it’s just a dream. Skye”—

She cried out again, and he shook her shoulder a little harder.

She jerked awake, her dark eyes wild.

“Ohh,” she groaned, one hand going immediately to her head. “Damnit. How drunk was I?”

“Pretty drunk,” he said. “Are you okay?”

“It was just a dream.”

“The nightmare,” he said. “Was it about Garrett?”

She hesitated and then nodded.

“I figured,” he said softly.

She pushed herself to a sitting position. “Tell me it was all a dream,” she said suddenly, her voice hard and bitter. “Please. Tell me I didn’t get to the end of a lifelong search and find John Garrett.”

He wished he could tell her that.

Wished it had all been different.

In another world, he would be able to tell her that. In another world, Skye would not have a monster for a father, and Grant Ward would never have followed that monster straight to damnation.

In this world, he did the only thing he could do: sat down beside her bed and took her hand in his, letting the silence speak for him.

She stared at him for an impossibly long moment, her dark eyes blank and empty and tortured. “What are we going to do, Grant?”

“Survive,” he said. “You will. You can. You always do.”

“But where do we go now? I have been looking for answers and now I have them and I don’t even know who I am without that search,” she said, her free hand running roughly through her messy hair. “And I thought being part of S.H.I.E.L.D. would help me find out, that if I was part of something bigger it wouldn’t matter as much”—

Her voice cracked and she grimaced, her hand tightening almost painfully around his.

“I spent fifteen years of my life trying to escape from my family,” Ward began softly, and her eyes turned to him, desperation and grief and pleading in her look. “And then I spent the next fifteen years trying to save John Garrett’s life. When that was done—when he had the GH-325 in him—I had nothing left. And Garrett walked away.”

“You told me once,” Skye interrupted, “after I broke into Quinn’s house the first time to stop the Gravitonium. You told me that you wouldn’t walk away.”

Ward met her gaze. “It was the first true thing I had said in fifteen years,” he said fiercely. “And it’s true now. We won’t walk away.”

“And you, Grant?”

“I’ll stay until you are safe,” he said. “Until you’re free. And then _you’ll_ walk away, Skye, because you deserve a life without Garrett’s shadow on you, and that shadow will cling to me all of my life.”

She didn’t respond for a long moment, and when she did, she didn’t contradict him or offer words of hope or absolution for the things he had done, and he was grateful. “But tonight?” she asked. “Tonight you’ll stay?”

He stayed—of course he stayed—leaning against the side of her bed, her hand in his.

_When Coulson found them the next morning, they had both fallen asleep like that, Skye curled close to the edge of the bed, her small hand in Ward’s, who was still sitting leaning against the bed, both of his hands closed over hers._

_And if Ward had been awake to see the way the light of the rising sun touched their sleeping faces or the look of peace he had brought to Skye’s tired face, he would have perhaps begun to understand that even the shadows of monsters pass eventually._

_But perhaps he realized part of that, even in his dreams, because even in his dreams he felt the light on his face and her hand in his, and she was calling to him as she always did._

_Grant, she called him, and it was like walking out of darkness and finding light at the end of it. Grant._


	83. Differences

“Tell me about Bangkok,” Ward folded his hands over the table in the interrogation cell, smiling coldly across at Raina. They had arrived back in Lithuania that morning, and the law enforcement—still grateful that Coulson’s team had delivered her to them—had allowed them a second interrogation.

Now, Raina’s usually calm stare was angry. “I’ve told you everything I know,” she snapped.

“You knew about Skye the whole time,” Ward said calmly. “And all you gave us was coordinates. So excuse me if I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Garrett didn’t tell me much,” Raina insisted. “I didn’t even know he was the Clairvoyant until Hydra was activated. _You_ were supposed to be his golden boy, Ward. Are you sure you’re not the one withholding information?”

“Garrett didn’t tell me much,” Ward struggled to keep his tone even. “You know that. I was his weapon, Raina, nothing more.”

“Ah, this is a far cry from the man who told me he owed Garrett everything,” Raina said, that familiar mocking smile snaking across her face. “What happened, Ward? Lost your faith?”

“Found it,” he said. “Now answer the question. Bangkok. Where in Bangkok is Garrett’s facility? Is it research, recon, or just a collection of safe-houses?”

“Why do you want this information now?” she asked. “What good can it do to know where Hydra is? You can’t stop them. They’re too big.”

“Let me make this simpler, Raina,” Ward said calmly, smiling in a way that was designed to leave Raina unnerved. “You give me the intel I want, or I cause you a lot of pain.”

Raina’s look darkened, and she unconsciously moved her hands out of his reach. “What do I get out of this, Ward?”

“You get to rot here with your fingers still intact,” Ward said.

“I heard they didn’t have the same mercy on you,” she said. “They tell me you were tortured for nine months, and that you barely even made noise. I can’t say I would be able to stand up under torture like that.”

“You wouldn’t,” he said contemptuously. “Bangkok, Raina. I won’t ask again.”

She gave him what he needed, eventually, though she was continually manipulating the conversation back to him, back to Coulson, back to Skye.

When the interrogation was over, Ward left, exhausted. He was used to mind games, used to difficult interrogations, but Raina had a unique ability to manipulate that left Ward completely spent after circumventing her mind games for the past two hours.

Coulson, Skye, and Fitz were waiting outside.

“Where are the others?” Ward asked wearily.

“They went back to the Bus.” Fitz clapped his hand on Ward’s shoulder. “You were in there a long time.”

“Yea, well Raina’s a difficult one to work over,” Ward said, annoyance slipping into his voice, and when Fitz grinned broadly, he scowled. “What?”

“There he is,” Fitz crowed delightedly. “There. He. Is. _This_ is the Grant Ward I know. Does that mean you’ve decided to stop babying me and have reverted to your old charming self?”

Ward opened his mouth to snap at him, but he found his lips twitching with a suppressed smile. “Shut up,” he said, but he was actually grinning now.

“Come on, Fitz, the Robot never stopped being his usual cheerful self,” Skye chimed in, and Coulson rolled his eyes at the three of them, but Ward caught his breath.

Because Skye had teased him for the first time in over a year, and for the briefest of moments it was the old days on the Bus all over again.

Except this time, there were no old loyalties branded across his skin and marking him a traitor; there was no shadow hanging over every word he spoke to them.

“Where are we off to next, then?” Skye asked Coulson. “Are we really flying to Bangkok?”

“Well, we know that Bangkok, Havana and Prague had three of Hydra’s most important outpost, and we’ve been to the Prague facility”—

“Which was abandoned except for Skye’s mother,” Ward interrupted him. “I still don’t think we’re finished with Prague. From what Triplett told me, Garrett had half a dozen outposts in Prague. He certainly had a lot of safe-houses.”

“Did he have safe houses in Bangkok or Havana?”

“Both,” Ward said. “The only people who ever occupied them were Garrett and I. Garrett doesn’t like to share information, especially if it left him vulnerable. He would tell his men that there were no safe houses in the cities he sent them, just so he could preserve the integrity of his safe houses if he needed them.”

“So do we have a place to stay in Bangkok?”

“I can’t promise that it’ll be outfitted with everything you need,” Ward said doubtfully as they exited the prison. “It’ll have weapons, but it doesn’t have the security of a base, so if Fury left you with something in Bangkok, I would use that instead.”

“Fury doesn’t have anything in Bangkok,” Coulson said. “So we’ll need whatever you have. Do you have a location that could hold all of us?”

“The only place is near Sukhumvit Soi, but it’s… it’s in the _Nana_ district,” Ward sighed.

“The what?” Fitz asked.

“The red light district,” Skye answered before Ward had a chance to open his mouth, and he looked at her sharply.

“You’ve been to Thailand?”

“Once.” She looked away, and Ward wondered again just how many secrets this girl still carried.

“Where will we land?” Ward turned to Coulson, breaking the silence as they boarded the Bus. “Do you have an airstrip and a transport?”

“I have a transport ship waiting in the Gulf of Thailand, and we’ll land there and take a boat to the mainland. I have a few Thai agents in the country—they fought in the Battle of New York, and they wanted to stay with S.H.I.E.L.D. even when there was no S.H.I.E.L.D. They’ll help us obtain a transport once we’re on land.”

“What are we going to do once we reach the Bangkok facility?” May asked, joining them. “Do you have a plan?”

“No, I thought we’d waltz up to the door and ask them to turn over all their weapons of evil,” Coulson said sarcastically, and Skye smirked.

“What is our goal with this mission, sir?” Triplett joined them, too, stopping to push the button to raise the ramp. “And how are the seven of us going to take out an entire Hydra base?”

“Our goal is to eradicate Hydra,” Coulson said again. “So we need to take this base. Not just take something—research or weapons or whatever else—and then leave, but we need to take this base. I’m going to make it a S.H.I.E.L.D. base, and let my Thai contacts have a say in running it.”

“I’d say it’s about damn time we started taking something,” Skye said, and her face was a shade paler than normal. “Hydra’s taken enough from us.”

Ward moved closer to her instinctively, placing a hand on the small of her back. She didn’t step away.

“And if—if I’m John Garrett’s daughter,” Skye said, the words sounding as if they tasted like ash on her tongue. “Then I want to start dismantling the mess he made.”

Coulson nodded, and the team dispersed, but Ward stayed beside Skye.

“You don’t have to do it because of that,” he said quietly, and she didn’t look at him.

“I’m just doing what you’re doing,” she said. “I’m trying to pay back the incalculable.”

“You don’t have anything to pay back,” Ward said. “You never pulled triggers, Skye. There’s a huge difference between you and me.”

She stepped away from him, her hand brushing his just slightly. “Not that huge,” she said softly, and then she was gone, disappearing into her bunk before he could say another word.


	84. Safe House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned." --Maya Angelou

They touched down on the ship in the gulf the next morning, and arrived in Bangkok the next evening.

“Does Hydra know about Ward?” Skye asked as they stood waiting for their tuk-tuk. “I mean, has Raina had any contact with outsiders?”

“We can’t be sure,” Coulson said. “We don’t think so, but there’s always the small chance that one of the prison guards works with Hydra.”

“But you’re not going to just send him in alone, right?” Fitz piped up.

“No, of course not,” Simmons said. “Right?”

“We’re going to get to the safe house first,” Coulson said firmly. “And then we’ll do some recon of the base before we decide on any plan.”

The safe house was a nice place on the edge of the more privileged sector. Garrett had always loved to travel in style, and this safe house was no exception to his taste for the expensive and luxurious.

“It’s like being on vacation,” Jemma said brightly as they entered the house, despite the fact that May and Triplett had just swept the house, guns out, for any possible intruders, and Skye was currently scanning the rooms for any hidden cameras or bugs.

“You have a _pool_ , Ward,” Fitz said suddenly, grinning at him before turning to Coulson. “Can we go swimming? Please?”

Coulson looked about to say no, but Fitz’s face was pleading, and no one could ever refuse that face. “Fine,” Coulson said, rolling his eyes. “It can’t hurt to take the night off. Skye can get visual of the base, and we’ll go in for recon tomorrow morning.”

Fitz grabbed Jemma’s hand. “Come on,” he said brightly. “Ward, come on, you heard him. We have the night off!”

Triplett joined the two younger agents in the pool, and even May followed eventually, once Coulson had taken a place on a chair beside the pool. Skye, however, remained inside, even after she had finished scanning for bugs.

“Aren’t you going to join them?” Ward leaned against the table she was sitting at, her laptop pulled close in front of her.

“I need to get satellite and CCTV footage of the base,” she said shortly. “So no. I’m not going to go swimming in your pool, Ward.”

“Okay,” he stood up. “Are you hungry?”

Loud laughter filtered through the open back door, and Skye looked up apologetically. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to snap. And yes. I’m hungry. You have food here?”

“Dry goods and canned goods were restocked three weeks ago,” Ward said. “So I could heat up some soup if you want.”

“Chicken noodle?”

“Of course.”

When Ward brought the soup back, Skye had closed her laptop and had her head down, resting it against the top of her laptop wearily.

“Skye?” he asked softly, setting down her bowl of soup.

When she didn’t look up, he pulled out the chair and sat down across from her. “Skye, you don’t have to do this,” he said gently. “You don’t have to isolate yourself from them.”

She sighed heavily and sat up. “It’s not that. It’s just that I’m tired,” she said suddenly, and he could hear her voice shake just slightly. “I’m tired and I can’t sleep, and they’re out there laughing and they’re alright and most days I can barely breathe.” The words tumbled out in a rush, and then she looked away, biting her lip as if she’d said too much.

He reached wordlessly for her hands, and she let him take them.

“I don’t want to see myself through their eyes,” she whispered. “I don’t think I could stand it.” Just as suddenly, she pulled her hands back again. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I’m being stupid.”

“No,” he said firmly. “No, you’re not being stupid. You’re being normal, Skye. It’s okay… what you’re feeling; it’s okay. But they won’t look at you differently because of Garrett, Skye. I promise they won’t.”

She looked up at him, longing in her eyes as if she wanted to believe him but couldn’t. “I have to do this,” she said finally. “It’s not just because taking down Hydra is the right thing to do. I have to undo the mess my father made.”

Ward looked away, suddenly thinking of broken ribs and long cold nights in the woods and little brothers who were not rescued in time. He was a mess.

And some messes were too broken to fix.

This time, it was Skye who reached for his hands and wove her fingers through his. “I didn’t understand,” she said. “I didn’t understand how you could live the way you do; trying so hard to make up for what’s been done. But I get it now. Sometimes everything breaks and that’s the only way to keep living afterwards.”

Ward drew a long breath.

“Do you still miss him?” she asked suddenly, and Ward looked up at her, his eyes locking with her dark ones.

He swallowed. “Sometimes I think I miss him,” he said slowly. “And then I look at you, and I’m glad he’s gone.”

That night, when Skye had gone to her own room and Ward finally fell asleep in the uncomfortable bed in the safe house, the nightmares were stronger than ever.

_A boy at the bottom of the well._

_Two scientists hurtling down towards the ocean._

_A girl on a hard cellar floor in a billionaire’s mansion, bleeding out onto the cold tile._

Ward woke in a cold sweat to find her slipping through the door.

“About Garrett?”

A nod.

“Me too.”

She didn’t say anything else, didn’t hesitate like he had, didn’t lengthen the distance between them. Instead, she shut the door behind her and climbed wordlessly into his bed, curling beside him in the curve of his body.

Ward fell asleep holding her close to his chest, as if he could only hold the light close enough to his heart he would learn how to harness whatever light was still left inside him.


	85. Vox Expiationis

It was morning over Bangkok, and Grant Ward was ready to die.

It was four am on the cool Friday morning, and the sun was just rising. Skye was still sleeping, curled into the arc of Ward’s body, and Ward slipped out of the bed. And because they were all sleeping, he found the courage to do what he had always known needed to be done.

The morning was silent and cool as summer gave its last hurrah before it fell away into autumn, and Ward was ready, at last, to fall with it.

There was silence all around him, and he was not afraid.

Ward hadn’t told them the whole truth about the Bangkok base. Hadn’t told them that as much as they needed it, there was no way they could take the base without heavy casualties. It was the most securely armored fortress he had ever seen.

He had the only chance—the off chance that Hydra didn’t know of his changed allegiance—and he was going to take it.

He was going to take it so they didn’t have to, and finally, _finally_ , it was his own decision. Not because he longed for death, not because he sought absolution the way he had for so long, but because, at last, he could see the way forward.

“Skye,” he whispered, and she stirred in her sleep. “Goodbye.”

He took one last look at her—messy dark hair covering her face, sunlight kissing her skin—and it gave him courage.

“You’re going.”

Melinda May’s cold voice stopped him as he shut the door to his bunk. He turned to her slowly. Her face was hard and impassive, but even she couldn’t keep back the emotion that flared in her eyes. “You’re going in alone,” she said. “It’s suicide.”

“Not if I don’t die,” he said, and he remembered a lifetime ago, when he had the same words to a dark-haired hacker in a storage closet. The world had been different then, and back then, he had thought he had a chance to make it out alive. Today, in the cold morning light of a city so far from home, he didn’t have that hope.

He didn’t need it.

A muscle in May’s cheek jerked, but she didn’t respond.

“All the weapons you’ll need to arm yourselves and Coulson’s Thai contacts are in the basement of this place,” Ward told her calmly. “There’s a few crates of weapons, and currency for a few different countries in the safety deposit box at the bank in central Bangkok. There’s a computer downstairs, with coordinates for every safe house that belonged solely to Garrett and I, which means there are places in almost every country where you’ll be safe. Skye will know the password to the computer.”

“They’ll want to follow you,” she said.

“And you and Triplett will find a way to make sure they don’t,” Ward said, strapping two night-night guns to his belt and shoving a third in a holster on his thigh. “You’ll keep them safe, Melinda May. I know you will.”

“What happens if you don’t take the base?”

“I’ll take it,” Ward said. “They’re my soldiers, and they answer to me. They follow orders, and that’s all most of them know how to do. I have no right to demand it, but when they’re your prisoners, please don’t go too harshly on them. Some of them are just boys who Garrett manipulated.”

“Like you were.”

Ward nodded dismissively. “After you have this base, the other main base in Havana will be easy to take. It’s just science and research, and it’s the most poorly guarded base I’ve ever seen. You can go back to Prague, too, and Skye can reclaim Garrett’s legacy and make it her own. She deserves that much. If anyone can take the mess he made and use it to build the new S.H.I.E.L.D., Skye can. The base in Prague is empty, and it’s probably the easiest place to start rebuilding.”

She nodded. “They’re not going to be happy with your choice.”

“I know. But it’s my choice, Melinda May, and you’re going to let me make it.”

She nodded again, her eyes flashing with emotion.

He turned to go, and she stepped aside.

“They’ll be safe,” she promised quietly. “Good luck.”

Ward exited the building, and within fifteen minutes he was standing outside the complex, a walled facility that he knew was predominately underground and went untouched by law enforcement because Hydra had long ago cut deals with governments worldwide.

He squared his shoulders and thought briefly of all he had done, all he had failed to do. Maynard and Dana and deep wells. Garrett and Buddy and shots he couldn’t take. Weakness and strength and success and failure and fists colliding with his ribs until he believed ever lie he was told. Triggers pulled and lives taken and the aching, haunting memory of a storage closet and dark eyes that promised something he could never have.

All of it, all of the good, all of the bad, all the years of his life… all of it had led to this cold morning.

It was morning over Bangkok, and Grant Ward was ready to die.

**_ואם אני אבדתי אבדתי_ **


	86. Truth At Last

_Note: trigger warning for abuse/torture. Violence is canon-typical, but might be hard if it’s a subject that triggers you, so please stay safe, lovelies!_

 

Hydra headquarters, Bangkok, Thailand. 

Friday.

4:36 am.

“State your name.”

“Grant Ward, Agent of Hydra.”

He looked the part—all sharp angles and stubble and tattered clothes, a few bruises here and there, scars showing—and he said the name with a force each man in the compound knew to respect and fear. And, until recently, they had trusted that name implicitly.

“Kaminsky, sir,” a soldier spoke into his secure com. “Grant Ward is at the front gate. What are my orders?”

“He is your commander,” Kaminsky’s voice came back in cold, clipped tones. “Let him in. We have ways of finding out his loyalties once he’s inside.”

4:38 am.

The gates open.

Security footage records entry at 4:38:27, and Grant Ward enters the compound. The stare that meets the camera is hard and arrogant and the men in the security room watching have no doubts that this man could be anything but loyal to Hydra.

There is footage of Ward entering, bruised but alive.

There will be no footage of Ward walking out of this graveyard.

“Kaminsky,” Ward greeted him with a nod.

“Sir,” Kaminsky returned, saluting. “Hail Hydra.”

“Hail Hydra,” Ward returned emotionlessly. “It’s been a while, Kaminsky.”

“Yes, sir. Last we heard you were in prison.”

“I broke out,” Ward said, and then a cold smile twisted his lips. “Or I guess you could say I was broken out.”

Kaminsky’s eyes narrowed. “Hydra has no record of a successful hit.”

“Hydra has no records of anything, because you let some hacker with a Trojan horse get the best of you,” Ward said sharply. “And Hydra didn’t break me out. S.H.I.E.L.D. did.”

“We heard that S.H.I.E.L.D. was dead.”

“None of them ever die,” Ward said. He had said the same words to Garrett once, long ago in a dark forest when Garrett had come to bring him to the academy. “They last forever, in small pockets of the world. You cannot eradicate them, only wear away at them. And S.H.I.E.L.D. thought I had intel that would be useful.”

“And did you, sir?”

“Have intel?” Ward asked, striding down the main corridor and not bothering to turn and see if Kaminsky was keeping up with him. “Of course I had intel. The question you really want to ask is, of course, did I give it to them?”

Kaminsky, who nearly had to run to keep up with him, reddened. “I would never presume to question your loyalty, sir,” he said.

“Of course you would,” Ward said. “You wouldn’t be a good commander if you didn’t. That’s why we’re going to the interrogation room at the end of the hall, you and I, where the lie detector is.”

“The lie detector, sir?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Ward said coldly. “Don’t play dumb. Fury thought he had the best technology in lie detectors, but even he had lines he refused to cross when it came to interrogation, and you know Garrett didn’t have those lines.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kaminsky, his red face turning slightly pale. “Are you sure”—

“It’s the only thing that will assure you of my unquestioning loyalty,” Ward said emotionlessly.

“Sir, I can’t ask you to”—

“No, you can’t,” Ward said. “And you can’t order me not to.”

He pulled open the door to the interrogation room, ignoring the soldiers along the corridor who had stopped and were staring at them. He stood holding the door open, waiting until Kaminsky went through, and then he followed and shut the door behind him.

There were two guards in the room, and Ward jerked his head towards the door. They left quickly, wordlessly, and Ward turned to Kaminsky.

“You will follow protocol,” he told Kaminsky sharply. “I’m getting into the chair, and you use each method of information extraction that you have used before on other prisoners, and I will answer whatever questions you care to ask, until you are assured of my loyalty.”

Kaminsky grimaced, but took his place before the console, facing the chair Ward had seated himself in.

Lesser men had quailed simply at the site of the chair, which, as Ward had said, was a version of Fury’s lie detector that crossed every moral line Garrett had always loved crossing.

“If the machine detects a lie, you will receive an electric current through your entire body,” Kaminsky repeated the words he had spoken to several prisoners, but his voice shook just slightly. Ward stared back at him calmly, waiting for him to finish. “It will not kill you, but it will be painful, and wherever the sensors touched your body, there will be scorch marks. If you continue to lie, other methods will be used.”

“I’m familiar with them,” Ward said coldly, settling into his chair. “Begin.”

“Why are you here?”

“This is my base,” Ward answered calmly. “I am the commander in Garrett’s absence, and I have come to reclaim what is mine.”

“Were you loyal to John Garrett in his life?”

“Unwaveringly.”

“Are you still loyal to John Garrett?”

“No,” Ward said, and Kaminsky’s brow furrowed. “Garrett is dead. There is no Garrett left to be loyal to.”

“Are you loyal to Hydra?”

“Yes,” he said. “I am loyal to the legacy John Garrett leaves behind.”

“Are you prepared to do whatever it takes to protect that legacy?”

“I am.”

“Are you prepared to cross out your former team, should the need arise?”

“I am prepared to sever any old loyalty for the sake of that legacy,” Ward said crisply. “Come on, Kaminsky. You can do better than this.”

The soldier scowled. “Your ribs,” he said. “One of them is broken. Who did that?”

“My ribs have been broken more times than I can count,” Ward looked at him oddly. “Which time are you talking about?”

“The one that happened this morning. Who broke your rib, sir?”

“A desperate man,” Ward said. “I don’t know who that man was.”

“Do you know why?”

“I think the man was pretending to be someone else,” he said. “The man was a spy. For who, I don’t know. I came here immediately after.”

“Where did you come from this morning?”

“A safe house belonging to John Garrett and myself,” Ward answered. “One of the many in Bangkok.”

“What is the location of this safe house?”

Ward laughed harshly. “Kaminsky, that isn’t an interrogation question,” he said. “And the safe-house is only for commanders. I’m not going to disclose that to you.”

Kaminsky surveyed him carefully, and then nodded. “Fine,” he said. “I hear your loyalties to your old team were complicated.”

“Very.”

“You attempted to cross off the scientists on Garrett’s orders,” Kaminsky said, and Ward stared back at him, his dark eyes emotionless and arrogant.

“Yes,” he said. “I did.”

“The attempt failed,” Kaminsky said.

“I know.”

“Given the opportunity, would you cross them off again?”

“No,” Ward said. “And I’m glad it failed. Garrett wanted them crossed off because of a temporary madness. Both Fitz and Simmons are valuable assets. Given enough pressure, they would work for this base.”

Kaminsky watched him carefully.

There was no fear on Ward’s face, and Kaminsky’s expression shifted from suspicion to admiration. “And the girl,” he said. “Raina said there was a girl named Skye.”

Ward sat up a little straighter, a muscle in his cheek jerking.

“Is she a threat?”

Ward hesitated. “No,” he said, and immediately his body jerked in its place in the chair, his back arching and his mouth opening as if he was screaming soundlessly, screaming underwater and no sound was coming out—

The electric current stopped, and Ward’s body sagged against the chair.

His breath was coming in short, heaving gasps, and his head lolled to one side as he struggled to hold onto consciousness.

Kaminsky raised his gun. “You’re the first men who didn’t scream during that part,” he observed coldly. “Is Skye a threat?”

“Not anymore,” Ward breathed. “I crossed her off this morning.”

A second current of electricity coursed through him, and this time he did scream, the noise dragged from his lips.

“You’re lying,” Kaminsky snarled, cocking the gun and pointing it at Ward’s head. “Where is Skye? Is she hacking us right now?”

“No,” Ward said raggedly, when he could finally speak again. “No, she’s not hacking us. She’s—she’s a prisoner—in my safe house. She’s my prisoner.”

Kaminsky’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you lie?”

“Because I thought”—Ward stammered raggedly, gasping for breath, his hand holding his sides where his skin was burned badly. “I thought you would want her—I thought others would want her. I just want her there when I’m finished. I want her for my own.”

Understanding dawned across Kaminsky’s face, and he smiled crassly. “You could have said so,” he said. “We’d back off your whore, sir.”

Ward closed his eyes. “That fucking hurt,” he snarled, strength coming back into his voice. “And I’m done with this bullshit.”

Kaminsky nodded. “Of course, sir. My apologies.”

Ward stood, swaying just slightly on his feet, and Kaminsky moved to help him. Ward waved him away. “It was necessary,” he said. “I trust my loyalties are confirmed?”

“Of course, sir,” Kaminsky said apologetically, his skin still a shade paler.

Ward pushed open the door, walking steadily despite the pain, and Kaminsky gave him that look again; fearful admiration, but trust, too.

And Ward knows the battle is half-over.

It is 5:03 am, and Grant Ward issues orders to assemble a team of thirty men to surround a small S.H.I.E.L.D. outpost outside of Bangkok.

It is 5:06 am, and there are three armored trucks loaded with weaponry, and thirty men assembled in the courtyard, awaiting for the order to move out.

It is 5:07 am, and a dozen men are found, bound and unconscious in the security room.

It is 5:08 am, and every com system on the base is dead.

It is 5:11 am, and Kaminsky finds out something is wrong.

It is 5:13 am, and the trucks full of weapons drive away with nothing but three Thai S.H.I.E.L.D. agents inside.

It is 5:14 am, and the thirty men in the courtyard fall, unconscious, from a sharpshooter with a silent icer.

It is 5:18 am, and Grant Ward points a finger at Kaminsky and calls him traitor.

It is 5:19 am, and Kaminsky is bound and imprisoned.

It is 5:20 am, and two dozen men are found, handcuffed and tied and unconscious.

There are twenty men left, and the med personnel on site find they are, impossibly, locked in the med wing.

There are ten men left, and Kaminsky opens his eyes to find Grant Ward, fighting with nothing but his fists against the people he once called his own.

It is 5:31 am, and Grant Ward stands before Kaminsky amidst a group of unconscious men. It is 5:31 am, and Grant Ward is victorious.

“The lie detector,” Kaminsky says breathlessly.

“The only legacy Garrett leaves behind is the woman you so unwisely called a whore,” Ward snarls. “And the only old loyalties I am severing are these.”

“Why?” Kaminsky demands. “If you could beat the lie detector, why did you put yourself through that?”

“So that you would believe I couldn’t beat it,” Ward answered, raising his icer. “And so that you would think my greatest strength was my weakness.”

“The girl.”

“Skye. Her name is Skye.”

It is 5:33 am, and Ward binds the last soldier and notifies law enforcement that their deal has been broken by Hydra.

It is not for nothing that Grant Ward was called the next Romanov. It was not for nothing that he destroyed his ties with Hydra. And it was not for nothing that he would throw away his life. But he was Grant Ward, and he had defeated an army.

It is 5:34 am, and Kaminsky remembers he is a real soldier.

It is 5:34 am, and Kaminsky inches away from the wall and grabs a gun in his bound hands.

It is 5:34 am, and Kaminsky shoots Ward in the chest.

It is 5:34 am, and in a safe house a few miles away, Skye wakes screaming with Ward’s name on her lips.

It is 5:34 am Hydra headquarters, Bangkok, Thailand.

Friday.

And Grant Ward cannot hear her.


	87. May's Choice

Skye and Coulson and the team arrive after the fight is done, after the compound is swarming with law enforcement. By the time they reached the room where Kaminsky lay, bleeding from a gunshot wound in one shoulder, there was nothing but a long trail of blood across the floor.

“He’s dead by now,” Kaminsky taunts, and they have to drag Skye back.

When she stops fighting them, Kaminsky opens his mouth again. “He broke his own rib to tell a convincing story,” he said, blood trickling from his mouth. “He took two rounds of electric current and the burns that came with it. For you. I should have known. He was weak his whole life.”

It’s May who takes the shot, before anyone can stop her.

There are tears standing on her face, but her face is blank and cold and fierce, and Skye wonders if this is what Grant looked like when he shot Thomas Nash.

Law enforcement takes the soldiers into custody.

There is evidence that Hydra, who had once paid off the Thai government for their blind eye, was planning to stage an attack on a politician’s home with thirty armed men and three armored vehicles.

When law enforcement leaves, Coulson speaks with a government official.

The base is on land recently deeded to a man named Dana Ward.

A man who, Skye knows, has not existed for ten years.

Skye wonders if the attack really was planned, or if it was, again, Ward keeping them safe.

Planning for everything.

Giving them a rock upon which to rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D.

“He’s not dead,” Fitz says, and she wants to believe him.

“He is,” Simmons says fiercely, turning away from them, and Skye believes her. “A gunshot to the chest. We’ll find his body soon.”

They don’t find his body, but that doesn’t mean he’s alive.

They find more blood outside.

They find nothing else, and she stares at the cold morning sky over Bangkok, her fists clench, telling herself that she will not cry, not today.

***

In a battered empty apartment building three blocks from the base, a wounded Grant Ward peels off his bullet-proof vest. The bullet never reached his heart.

One had reached his side, however, and he was bleeding heavily. He groaned, settling onto the floor of the empty apartment. He tore strips from his shirt, wrapping the wound tightly. He had lived through worse.

He thought of Kaminsky briefly. He had thought he would have to shoot the man, but as he looked through the sights of the gun at the soldier, fearless and angry and a little desperate, he had seen only himself as he had been not so long ago.

He hadn’t taken the kill shot.

He saw the team before they reached his street. Simmons was trying to wrap her arms around Fitz, and Fitz shook off her attempts, shouting that Ward wasn’t dead, that he couldn’t be, that he wouldn’t believe it until he saw it himself, and Ward smiled a little sadly.

May stood beside Coulson, her hand on his arm, and even from where he was hidden, Ward could see the regret and sorrow written across Coulson’s face.

Triplett, of course, was beside FitzSimmons.

He was their pillar, as Ward had once been.

Skye was the worst of the group, and Ward wanted to call out to her when he saw the numb sorrow on her face and in her clenched fists and in her stooped shoulders.

He wanted to call out to her.

So badly.

But this was it.

This was her moment.

She was free and he was free, and together could not work, not while his ledger still gushed with red.

She was free to fight for the world she loved and the team she loved and the only family she had ever known.

And he, he was free to make his own way and his own choices for the first time in his life.

May looked up suddenly, her sharp eyes searching the building, and he knew the exact moment they found him.

He shook his head when her eyes locked on his, and he saw relief and anger flash through together.

Melinda May hesitated, looked at her team, and then she nodded, just once, and guided the team away from the building where he lay hidden.

It was odd, Ward reflected as the sound of their footsteps wore away on the lonely street.

Coulson had given him his voice, and Skye had pulled him out of the numbness of his imprisonment. Fitz and Simmons had been the ones to help him find his first step out of the dark, with board games and monkeys and visits that came like daylight after a long night. Triplett had been the only one, in all of the betrayal and the darkness that had followed, who had look at Ward and understood.

But it was May—Melinda May, specialist and protector—who offered him the greatest mercy of all: letting him walk away.

Ward stood, swayed a little from the loss of blood.

He had hurt and been hurt, he had fallen and broken and shattered so many times and in so many ways, but now, at last, he could stand on his own, if weakly. There were debts he could never pay, wrongs he could never make right, but today, in an empty room in Bangkok, Grant Ward stood on his own two feet for the first time in his life.

It was only one of many steps, perhaps, but it was the first.

And the sunlight on his skin as he stepped outside to find his own way felt like the light of freedom. 


	88. Kevlar

They went back to the Bus afterwards, and brought it to the landing strip inside the large Bangkok compound. They moved forward slowly, determinedly, securing the base in Prague, taking back the Havana base. Fitz and Simmons had a lab to work in again, Coulson recruited new agents—and brought back some old ones—with the help of Skye, who spent her time rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D. as his second-in-command, Triplett trained new agents to be specialists in field ops, and May was, as she had always been, their warrior. She argued governments and agencies and soldiers into acceptance of the new S.H.I.E.L.D. The global council, so shattered after Pierce’s execution of several of the members, was reformed under Melinda May’s leadership.

Grant Ward, however remained a ghost, and did not resurface.

There were rumors, whispers, hints, if you knew where to look.

Eric Koenig’s estranged son received an anonymous donation that covered the remainder of his college tuition, all from an untraceable source. And on the day he came home from the college, staggering with the shock of the news of his tuition, Koenig’s son found something waiting in his apartment.

A new gaming console and a new TV, with a note on it. It was a username for the game, and the note, “This is Billy’s username. Call him.”

On the other side of the world, Billy Koenig saw the incoming request from Eric Koenig, Jr., and realized he was suddenly looking at it through a haze of tears.

They were never able to trace the source, but one day, months after they had begun talking again, the two men met for the first time in years, at a small cemetery in northern Ontario.

It was Coulson who got the phone call from Billy Koenig, resigning from S.H.I.E.L.D. to spend more time with his nephew, and Coulson related Billy’s strange—almost miraculous—reunion with his nephew to his five team members. The hope on their faces as they heard the news and understood, and Coulson wondered how many more miracles Grant Ward had worked.

They spoke his name rarely, but with Skye, he was a constant presence.

When she spoke with young S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, when she trained with May and Triplett as S.H.I.E.L.D.’s newest specialist, it was Ward she remembered—the SO who read Matterhorn and looked at her as if her light took his breath away; the man who had held her through the longest nights of her life; the man who had given her the stepping stone upon which she built her new world.

She moved forward, too—she would not be Skye if she didn’t—and there was that young hacktivist she recruited. They got drinks a few times, but when he kissed her, she knew there were some kinds of love you don’t get over.

You do get past them, however, and eventually she did.

There was work and her team and, sometimes, relationships.

She lived and loved and fought as fiercely as she always had, as vivaciously as she had her whole life.

And she began to realize that moving forward doesn’t have to mean forgetting.

Skye stopped looking for him, realized he didn’t want to be found.

It took her a long time to realize, too, that he was still everywhere.

Hints, whispers, rumors.

He was still a ghost.

It was dark on the day Melinda May received news from an anonymous source about an old op in Bahrain.

It was a simple file, with a Hydra stamp on the cover and the Cybertek name on the inside.

It was proof that Hydra had orchestrated the Bahrain attack, and that Cybertek had helped them—enough proof, in fact, that May was able to bring about the closure of Cybertek Industries.

It wasn’t the only thing listed, however.

The file also listed that the mission was a failure because one woman had risked her life to rescue every innocent person involved. Then came the list of names—Hydra targets the Cavalry had saved with her actions—and on that list was the one that mattered most: _Coulson, Phillip._

Coulson, who hadn’t known, dropped the file and kissed her in the middle of the staff room. (The other agents knew better than to comment, though Skye suggested they get a room and FitzSimmons began debating the scientific probability of how often they were doing it every time they left the room together).

There were other things, small things.

Victoria Hand’s widow, a tall, dark-haired woman named Elizabeth who laughed hard and drank hard and fought hard, found herself invited to a party with friends at a bar near her Portland home.

She didn’t find the party, or the friends.

In fact, she found that the text hadn’t really come for her friends at all.

What she did find was the only other person in the bar, who also happened to have been invited by mistake: a slim, gentle woman named Audrey Nathan, a cellist with fingers as soft as Elizabeth’s were strong.

They never knew—never cared, really—how it was the accident had occurred, but it wasn’t long before Audrey realized she had found a love that would make her light shine brighter instead of absorbing it, and Elizabeth realized she had found a woman as fierce as Victoria had been, but with a much-needed innate kindness neither Victoria or Elizabeth had possessed.

Hints, whispers, rumors.

The ghost did not resurface.

Two S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had died when Hydra took the Fridge.

One of them, a man named Corban, had left behind no family except for an elderly father, ex-military, divorced, lonely, and fiercely proud of his fallen son.

The father received an anonymous note detailing his son’s courage and compassion, and an old dog—seventeen at least, miraculously still alive despite rheumatism and a year of living on its own in the woods—whose name on the collar was simply “Buddy.”

The other man—Tony—had left behind a wife and young daughter. The wife, Lily, found herself, by an invitation that, like Audrey and Elizabeth’s had been, proved to be false, anonymous, and untraceable.

She arrived in a small diner with her daughter, four-year-old Anna. There was only one other man in the diner, and he, too, looked a little lost. He stood next to his son, and something in his loneliness stood out to Lily.

She struck up a conversation with him—he introduced himself as Mike—and while his son Ace began talking to her Anna, she found herself learning more and more about his story.

He, too, had been part of S.H.I.E.L.D. for a short time, but his story had taken a brighter turn than her husband’s—an anonymous fund had covered surgery on his cybernetic eye and given him non-weaponized prosthetics. Someone—Mike didn’t know who—had referred him to a certain billionaire named Tony Stark, who had given him a job on the spot, and he had been reunited with his son soon after that.

They talked for three hours, and it was the first of many conversations (they both told themselves it was because their kids had hit it off so well until the day when Mike walked her home from the diner in the rain and kissed her outside her house until they saw Anna and Ace laughing at them from the window).

Triggers pulled, lives taken, actions that could never be undone.

And for each trigger that had been pulled, there was a hint, a whisper, a rumor.

A ghost that could not be found.

One day a few months after Bangkok, Fitz’s monkey Gerald received a companion, a monkey rescued from poachers with significant damage to her ability to communicate (the person who brought her knew nothing beyond that). Fitz named her Lena, and Lena and Gerald followed him around the compound so often that Coulson had to make a rule expressly forbidding monkeys in top-brass staff meetings.

(Fitz and Simmons argued fiercely about having monkeys in the lab, and on a rainy day when that argument reached its peak, Simmons pushed him against the wall and kissed him, calling him “Leo” for the first time since the academy).

It was sadly ironic that Skye, who thought of him more than anyone, had received none of these hints, whispers, rumors.

Until that dark Friday night a year after Bangkok.

It was storming, and Skye was curled up on board the Bus—she still spent most of her time on the Mobile Command Unit, the first place that had really felt like home—and listening to music. She was reading a book she had found under a bunk the previous day, _Matterhorn_.

There was a knock at her door, and a young S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, a girl with bright red hair and laughing green eyes stood outside, holding a package. “Sorry to bother you, Agent Skye,” she said nervously. “But I was told to give you this.”

Skye tilted her head in confusion. “Who asked you to deliver this?”

“I don’t know him,” the girl answered. “I assumed he was an agent. Tall, dark hair. Reminded me of Agent Triplett.”

Skye jumped to her feet, sending the book and the package clattering to the floor. “Did he say anything else?” she demanded breathlessly, and the girl looked taken aback at her sudden excitement.

“Uh—he just said he didn’t have much for you,” she stammered. “To give you. That he just wanted you to know this—whatever this message is.”

Skye nodded, dismissing her with a quick “Thank you.”

She tore open the package and held up a jacket.

Black, bulletproof, the indent of a bullet that had failed to puncture the vest directly over the place the heart would be.

Skye ran her fingers over the vest thoughtfully, placing a hand over the indent from the bullet and remembering Bangkok, the cold morning and the desperation and Simmons’ words _“A gunshot to his chest.”_

And she knew, finally and unequivocally, that Grant Ward was more alive than he had ever been.

She pulled the vest close to her chest, and a note fell from it.

She lifted it and unfolded it, a smile playing across her face as she read the words, written in a hasty scrawl she would recognize anywhere:

_No more Kevlar. Not for me._

_Thank you._


	89. An Invitation

Ward had been living under different names for the six months as he had traveled around the world, using every emergency account Garrett had set up—as well as most of his own—to begin making lives better instead of worse.

He didn’t mean to settle down on the outskirts of Boston; hadn’t ever planned to end up back in Massachusetts.

Skye had been on the Bus in New York, since the US government had finally stopped referring to the new S.H.I.E.L.D. as a terrorist organization and allowed Coulson to work within the US under certain restrictions, and Ward had left the package for her.

He hadn’t planned to stay anywhere near her, but on his way out after this final task, he happened across the situation accidentally.

It was a boy—young; fifteen at most—fighting in an alley in northern Roxbury. There were four attackers, all men, and the young boy fought like Ward had—all speed and tenacity and desperate determination, with a fair smattering of smart remarks.

He heard bones break—one attacker’s wrist and then the boy’s rib—and he stepped in.

He told the four attackers to leave, and they ran, obviously thinking he was some sort of law enforcement, and Ward sighed with relief that he did not have to raise a fist.

The kid stared at him warily, his eyes glittering with fear and hatred. “Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.

“John Douglas,” Ward said without much conscious thought. “What’s your name?”

The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Dana,” he said. “My name’s Dana.”

Ward stared at him, gutted. “I had a younger brother with that name once,” he said, again without much conscious thought.

“Great,” the kid said, circling away as if he was ready to run. “Now what the fuck do you want from me? I don’t have any money.”

“I don’t want any money,” Ward said, raising his hands and stepping back, trying to communicate that he didn’t want to hurt the kid. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” the kid snarled, turning his head to hide the bruise on his face.

“That bruise wasn’t from today,” Ward said. “Who gave it to you?”

“Why does it matter?” Dana demanded. “What do you want with me?”

“I saw four men attacking you, kid,” Ward said. “I just wanted to make sure you were safe.”

“Safe?” Dana laughed harshly. “Safety is an illusion.”

Ward raised his eyebrows. “You’re a sharp one,” he said. “Do you have a place to go?”

“I ran away from the half-way house today,” the kid admitted unexpectedly, but his face hardened again almost immediately. “But I don’t need a place to go. I’m fine out here.”

“Yea, just fine,” Ward said. “You’re on the streets in Roxbury alone, and you’re how old? Fifteen?”

“Fourteen,” the boy said, and Ward shook his head.

“There’s a shelter down the street,” he said. “It’s a place to stay tonight, kid, and I think the men who attacked you will be back as soon as I’m gone, so I’d take that shelter, if I were you.” He turned to go.

“Wait,” Dana called after him, and Ward looked over his shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” Ward said honestly, and then he hesitated. “Do you mind if I walk to the shelter with you?”

It wasn’t supposed to be permanent. He wasn’t supposed to stay even one night.

But one thing led to another and that was, in short, how Ward ended up working at a shelter in the very state he had once sworn never to return to.

 He had been there for six months—and been gone from the team for just over twelve—when a messenger arrived for him.

The messenger arrived, weary and weather-beaten and travel-worn, to a long, low building on a main street that cut through through Roxbury. Inside, he found the place, though a little bare, was warmly lit, welcoming, and a little messy.

A man greeted him at the door, slightly flustered. “Hi there,” he said. “How are you doing tonight?”

“Fine,” the messenger responded detachedly. “I’ve heard I can find John Douglas here. Is that true?”

“Er, yes,” the man said. “Sorry, he’s in a meeting with one of our staff members now. You see, one of our boys got into another fight and they’re deciding what to do about that now”—

“When can I see him?” the messenger cut him off curtly.

“Um, let me talk to him,” his host said. “Have a seat out here.”

The messenger surveyed his surroundings with a sharp, practiced eye. Two young barefoot teenage boys in sweatpants and tank tops sidled through the room, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Who are you?” one asked, and the messenger stared at him for a long moment.

“An old friend of John Douglas’,” he said finally. “Do you know him?”

Both kids nodded.

“He’s the one who brought me here,” one said, squinting up at the messenger suspiciously.

“Me too,” the other kid added. “He’s helped most of us, really. The director’s Aaron. You’ve probably met him? He’s a nice guy, but it’s Douglas who gets it.”

“Yea,” the first boy assented. “He doesn’t talk much about himself, but… you kind of know. If you’re one of us.” His stare turned sour, implying that the messenger wasn’t one of them, and the man smiled grimly.

He himself had seen the darker side of humanity, but these boys here were fiercer and angrier than many soldiers he had known.

“Where’s Douglas now?”

“Trying to convince the board not to kick Dana out,” the second kid answered. “He got into another fight.”

“Dana?”

“He was the first boy Douglas brought here,” he said. “Six months ago, when he started working here.”

“Thanks,” the messenger said. “Where can I find him right now?”

The first boy jerked his thumb in the direction of a long hallway, and the messenger set off, not waiting for the director who had gone to talk to Ward. The messenger paused outside of a room where he heard raised voices.

“We can’t bend the rules just because you happen to like this kid,” a man’s voice said angrily. “Rules are rules, and this kid keeps breaking them.”

“Kicking him out will cause more problems than it will solve,” another voice—the messenger recognized Ward’s voice immediately—said firmly. “And I’m not saying that you should change the rules. I don’t want you to excuse what Dana did, I’m just saying that mercy is an important part of justice when it comes to these kids”—

“Save it,” the other man said.

“He has a point,” a female voice interjected for the first time. “We could consider a different form of discipline, given the circumstances.”

“I agree,” a fourth voice said.

“Thank you,” Ward said. “And I’m told someone’s here to see me, so if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to talk to Dana and then I’m needed out front.”

The messenger ducked out of sight, and Ward passed the room he was hiding in and entered another one.

“Dana,” Ward called, and the messenger heard another voice—a boy, young and angry and desperate—answer.

“They kicking me out?”

“No.”

“Seriously?” Dana’s voice had a note of incredulity. “I thought they’d give up the first opportunity I gave them.”

“I’m not giving up on you that easily,” Ward said sharply. “In fact, I’m not giving up on you at all. Which is why you’re still going to be facing disciplinary measures, Dana, and the board talked about probation. No more fighting.”

“Ha,” Dana scoffed. “I’m not a fan of probation.”

“Me either,” Ward said. “I petitioned for community service hours instead, and they agreed. You’ll be working with Aaron at the animal shelter and cleaning up one of the public parks.”

Dana was silent for a long moment. “But I don’t mind either of those things. Where’s the punishment?”

Ward sighed, and the messenger heard a chair scrape back as Ward stood. “This was never about punishment,” he said. “It’s about you figuring out how to make this right. You have a chance, Dana, and I know you. I know the person you want to be. This is about helping you get there.”

Ward exited the room, followed by Dana, and the messenger stepped out of the adjacent room into the light of the hallway. Dana jumped, but Ward’s eyes simply narrowed slightly.

“Agent Triplett,” he said, and when Dana looked at him curiously. “Dana, give us a minute.”

Dana disappeared down the hallway, leaving Triplett and Ward alone.

“What are you doing here?” Ward asked sharply, leading him into the now-empty conference room where he had just argued with the board.

“I could ask you the same question,” Triplett said. “This is the last place I would have expected to find you.”

“You’re the last person I expected to find me,” Ward answered. “Did Coulson send you?”

Triplett shook his head. “The team is happy,” he said. “They’re safe. They’re fine. But they miss you.”

Ward shook his head. “They’re free,” he said dismissively. “So am I, in some ways. And that’s worth more.”

Triplett knew what he meant.

Knew that freedom was worth it, even though freedom so often meant loneliness. Freedom was not easy; freedom was something hard and cold and clear, and Grant Ward had found that freedom in a small shelter in Boston.

“You would still be free if you came back,” he said. “So would they. You don’t have to sacrifice the person you’ve become now because of the choices you made in the past.”

Ward looked doubtful. “How did you find me?”

“You don’t leave much of a trail,” Triplett said ruefully. “But I came looking, because Skye is the co-director of a global security organization and she runs ops and recruits students and risks her life every day and she loves every bit of it, but she still goes to the Bus instead of going home every night, and she always ends up in your bunk reading _Matterhorn_.”

“ _Skye_.” Ward let out the name like a prayer. It was the first time he had spoken her name in the year he had been gone. “Did she trace me?”

“No, I found you because there was a story in the news—just a small one, but it caught my attention—of a boy named Dana who had fallen to the bottom of an old well at the edge of Boston,” Triplett said. “He was just a street kid, so the story didn’t get too much attention, but the part that caught my attention was the rescue. You see, the firemen had told everyone to stay back while they figured out a way to rescue him. They didn’t think that throwing a rope would be a safe way to pull the kid out. But there was a man there who didn’t listen—a man who went by the name John Douglas—and he didn’t throw the kid a rope. He just climbed down and carried the kid to safety himself.”

Ward looked at him in silence for a long moment. “I can’t leave them,” he said. “They deserve better.”

“The boys you’ve brought to safety,” Triplett said. “They’re all what? Fifteen, sixteen, at least?”

Ward nodded.

“We’d like to offer them places in the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy,” Triplett said, holding up his hand when Ward opened his mouth to respond. “Hear me out. The academy is different than the old one. It’s primarily a school—a high school—with the opportunity of joining S.H.I.E.L.D. afterwards. It’s selective, but each of the boys you’ve brought to this shelter are gifted, and we just want to give them a chance. They haven’t had a lot of chances so far.”

Ward hesitated, and the nodded slowly. “If that’s what they want.”

“Your boy Dana,” Triplett said. “I think he’d snap up this chance. Especially if you went back.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Ward said. “It’s been so long. I’ve never really been an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., and I don’t know if I can come back to… to everyone.”

“Skye is here,” Triplett broke the news to him, and Ward jumped to his feet, his chair clattering to the ground.

“Where?” Ward demanded, staring around the room wildly. “Why?”

She was at the door suddenly, her dark hair tumbling around her shoulders in that frantic mess he had missed so much, and Ward stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost. “Skye,” he said, his voice ragged. “ _Skye_.”

Skye crossed the room, nearly running. “Grant,” she said fiercely, her voice thick with emotion. There were tears shining in her dark eyes, and her hand curled around the front of his shirt, pulling him forward so his face was inches from hers.

Ward stared at her, his face twisting with emotion, and then he dropped his head against her chest. “Skye,” he murmured. “I don’t know if I can come back.”

“I don’t want you to come back because you feel obligated,” she said, her words rushing over his skin like a river. “If you come back, I want it to be what you want. But I also want you to know that we want you. We all do.”

He lifted his head, looking up at her. “I can never be the man you thought I was. I can never earn your forgiveness.”

“That’s the thing about forgiveness,” Skye said gently. “It’s not earned. And I know who you are. I know exactly who you are.”

“Would you be ready?” he asked. “Would you be ready if I came back? Would you really, really want that?”

“I want you to come home and be Grant Ward again,” she whispered softly. “Be _my_ Grant Ward.”


	90. Out of Darkness

They gave him time to the think about the invitation, and when Skye left, leaving him a piece of paper with nothing but the coordinates, Ward found himself wondering if it was nothing but a dream.

It was a dark Friday night, and Ward spent it tossing and turning, thinking of old debts and new lessons on forgiveness and the kind of love that stayed constant after all of it.

It was a cool Sunday morning, similar to that day in Bangkok so long ago, when Grant Ward arrived at the coordinates Skye had left him.

It was an airstrip outside of L.A., and the Bus was parked with the ramp down, waiting for him.

There were a thousand old memories here—a thousand old memories in this city—and there, on the ramp, stood Skye, wearing a plaid button down like the one she had been wearing when he had first found her, the hacker with no last name and no home address, living in a van in L.A.

He dropped his bag, staring up at her uncertainly, and then she was running towards him and he was running towards her and they collided as they had always collided—rough and fierce and too eager—and then she was kissing him until he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t remember his own name—

Skye pulled back finally, and it was only then that Ward realized he was surrounded by FitzSimmons, May and Triplett. When Skye stepped back, Fitz threw his arms around Ward exuberantly, dragging him nearly off his feet, and Simmons nearly tackled him with a bear hug.

“I always knew you were alive, you bastard,” Fitz shouted triumphantly. “Even in Bangkok. Where the hell did you go off to for so long?”

When the two scientists finally released him, Triplett shook his hand, grinning. “I had hoped, Ward,” he said. “I had hoped you’d join us.”

May was next, and she stopped in front of him, her face that calm mask he recognized so well. Her eyes, however, were burning with emotion, and when she spoke, her chin quivered just slightly. “Ward,” she acknowledged him with a single nod, but she held out her hand to shake.

He took it, and when he released her, he saw the tiniest hint of a smile on her face.

A shadow fell across the ramp, and Ward looked up to see Coulson standing there, his eyes shining with emotion. “Agent Ward,” he said stiffly, trying to still the shake in his voice. “We’ve missed you.”

Ward reached out to shake his hand, but Coulson pulled him into a brief hug. “I’m glad you’re back, Grant,” Coulson said as he released him, and his voice sounded heavy with the weight of everything that had happened. “Welcome home, son.”

They showed him to his bunk—the same bunk he had slept in during that year on the Bus that had changed everything—and then the team left him alone with Skye.

“Your boy Dana is at the academy right now,” she said. “And the others are coming tomorrow morning. I’m assuming you want to see them when they arrive?”

“Of course,” he said uncertainly. “And I was wondering… I was wondering if you’d need teachers at the academy. Because I’d like to do that. Teach, I mean.”

Skye’s expression was unreadable. “I think you’d be good at that,” she said finally.

“You know I can’t come back and be that specialist again,” he said uncertainly, averting his eyes. “That Grant Ward never existed. And the person I am now… that person is done fighting.” He couldn’t look at her. Perhaps this was all wrong, perhaps this was not what she had wanted, perhaps he should have just stayed where he was—

“Grant,” she was close to him—inches from him—suddenly and her fingers traces his jaw line. “I wouldn’t want you to be anyone but the man you are right now. I… I fell in love with the tiny piece of you I could see all along. I didn’t love the soldier, I didn’t love the robot, I didn’t love the specialist who had done things I didn’t care to imagine. I loved _you_ , and I think I knew you, even then, even when you were only a shell of who you could be. I always knew you, Grant Ward. Always.”

Ward swallowed hard. “And it’s okay? If I don’t want to fight anymore?”

“It’s more than okay,” she said. “It’s the best news I’ve heard since I can remember.”

Skye stretched up to her tiptoes and kissed him, and then he was kissing her back again, and the scent of her skin and the warmth of her breath and the feeling of her tongue snaking inside his mouth overwhelmed him and—

“Bed,” she said savagely, gasping for breath. “My bed. Now.”

He lifted her, and she wrapped her legs around him, kissing him madly as he carried her to her small bedroom. When they reached the bedroom, she dropped to the floor lightly and pushed him against her wall.

“Kiss me, Rookie,” she commanded, and he laughed.

“I’m the Rookie?”

“Yup,” she said. “I’m the director now, didn’t you hear. And I’ve been part of this S.H.I.E.L.D. longer now, Rookie, so suck it. And shut up and kiss me.”

And Grant Ward kissed her until there was no air left in his lungs.

Skye pulled him onto the bed, murmuring hoarsely into his ear as she pulled his shirt over his head.

(Spoiler alert: Grant Ward still wasn’t on top).

Afterwards, when they lay side by side in her small bed, Skye’s fingers traced the scars along his chest—burn scars from Kaminsky’s chair and a dozen old gashes from the places ribs had been broken and that one small scar just over his heart where John Garrett had placed a burning brand once.

“I love you,” she whispered, and Ward let the words seep into his battered skin until he believed them as fiercely as she did.

And when he did, he rolled over and whispered into her hair, “I love you, too. So much.”

Skye fell asleep in his arms, her head against his shoulder and her long dark hair falling across him softly.

Ward stayed awake for long after that, treasuring each second she spent in his arms. He remembered a day so long ago, after he had come to Skye broken and wounded in the Providence base; how he had longed for a world in which he could be her Grant Ward and fall asleep holding her hand.

And this, _this_ he could never have hoped for. This peace, after the longest of battles. This hope, after the deepest of despairs.

Grant Ward fell asleep, finally, cocooned next to the woman he loved, and it was a silence and a rest better than any he had ever experienced.

Outside their small room, the nightmares of the past hammered, John Garrett and triggers that had been pulled and older brothers who could not throw that rope, but they could not get in. Perhaps the damage of years gone past could never be undone, perhaps the scars on his body would never heal, perhaps the scars on his soul were permanent, but tonight, for the first time, he slept in peace.

And when he woke, to Skye’s smile and her dark eyes so full of laughter and the sunlight kissing his skin, Grant Ward finally knew what hope looked like.

There had been a day when they had both been so broken, so lost: a pissed-off hacker with no name and no family, and a boy who could not escape the past no matter how fast they ran.

But now, Ward wove his fingers through hers, and grinned when she called him “rookie” and tossed his shirt at him.

Because this is what it looked like; this healing. She held up something—a package he had left for her six months ago. A jacket, with a bullet-dent just above its heart.

“No more Kevlar?” Skye asked softly, and Ward sat up, pulling her closer to him.

“No more Kevlar,” he said.

And this, perhaps, is the true miracle which happened; that Grant Ward, agent and spy and broken boy, found that healing came through compassion, that recovery came through freedom, but that each step of the journey back to being a good man came through love.

This, simply: Kevlar laid down, and tear stains that washed away yesterdays, and the hope he had found in the dark eyes of the hacker.

This was how Grant Ward had taken every step out of darkness into the most marvelous light of all.

 

_“But even a traitor may mend. I have known one who did.”_

_Finis._


	91. Afterword (Author's Note)

(Ridiculously long) Author’s Note:

Wow. I wrote over 90,000 words in the two months (actually to the day) since I started this (the first chapter of this fic was my first experiment with fanfiction, and now look where I am). And in that time, between FF and AO3, I’ve gotten over 100,000 visitors, over 700 reviews/comments, and so, so many encouraging new friends whose genuine interest in this story has been overwhelming. So, thank you.

Yes, this story is (finally) done.  

This is the ending I’ve been planning since I saw “Turn, Turn, Turn,” and realized exactly what kind of redemption story I wanted to see Grant Ward have. I’ve had the privilege to see some of you, who were unsure in the first few chapters whether they even _wanted_ Ward to be redeemed, become the staunchest believers in redemption because of this story. I’m grateful and honoured and overwhelmed at all of the support (especially during the time when, as some of you know, people were leaving hate on my fic of messaging me and calling me a “Nazi” for wanting a redemption story).

I’ve spent a lot of time on this fic, and these characters matter so much to me. Redemption matters. And as I said, I’m beyond grateful for all of your support through this. To be frank, I’m a little tired, too. Writing this was a totally new experience, and the feedback was overwhelmingly lovely, but it was, in all, a lot. A lot of late nights and a lot of words and as both a writer and survivor, writing about some of Ward’s experiences was emotionally draining. For those following my other fics, you may see a little less of me over the rest of the summer, but I hope to continue surviving this hiatus with all of you lovely people, so don’t worry. I will be back, just not as often.

As for this story, please review and tell me what you thought of the story as a whole. I don’t usually go asking (okay, begging) for reviews, but to all of my lovely, faithful readers… please, it would mean so much to me if you would take a few minutes and tell me what you thought of the story as a whole. What are your thoughts (positive and negative) and critique/feedback/something you would like to see in a different story down the road?

What do you think—did I redeem Grant Ward?

—Estlin 


	92. Sequel: 50 Sentence Prompt

_Grant Ward, Out of Darkness. A 50-sentence-prompt sequel._

#01 – comfort

There are still days—so many days—when he wakes from a nightmare to the strength of her hand wrapping around his.

#02 – kiss

 _God,_ when he kisses her everything is new.  

#03 – soft

No one would have called a former Hydra soldier “soft,” but when May sees him carrying a sleeping Dana up to bed one night, she doesn’t comment.

#04 – pain

His third week of class, someone asks him about Hydra and he turns as white as ghost until Skye comes and takes his hand in hers.

#05 – potatoes

Skye and Jemma claim that he’s _trying_ to make them gain weight with all the carbs he’s been cooking, but _damn_ they’re never going to say no to Grant Ward’s mashed potatoes.

#06 – rain

He dances with her outside the Academy until they’re both soaking wet and Coulson shouts at them that he can’t be having the co-director of S.H.I.E.L.D. die from a lightning bolt or a goddamn bout of pneumonia.

#07 – chocolate

It’s on the day when Skye asks for pickles— _pickles!_ —with her chocolate ice cream that Jemma mentions “pregnancy cravings” and Ward falls out of his chair in shock.

#08 – happiness

On the day Grant Douglas Ward feels his son kick inside Skye’s womb, the small foot so firm and _alive_ against his hand, he knows that despite all the destruction in his past, it is finally, _finally_ possible for him to create something breathtaking.

#09 – telephone

Grant calls Skye at least once every day throughout the pregnancy to make sure she’s doing okay, and Coulson can’t even fault him for it because he calls her at least twice.

#10 – ears

He hears his son cry—a high thin wail—and Grant Ward almost weeps.

#11 – name

They call the baby Dana Leo Ward, and, as Skye points out when Ward is uncertain about parenting, this child has something neither of them had—a family to belong to.

#12 – sensual

They have a baby who won’t sleep through the night, a massive intelligence organization to run, and a host of teenagers to oversee at the Academy, but _god_ he’s glad she still wants to fuck him in the storage closet between classes.

#13 – death

The anniversary of Garrett’s death is harder than anything, but surprisingly enough, it’s Triplett who silently pours two glasses of scotch and sits beside him in silence.

#14 – sex

Skye is dirty in bed (and Grant isn’t on top).

#15 – touch

He’s never been good with casual physical contact, but when Skye invades his personal space, he never seems to mind.

#16 – weakness

There are still days when he is nothing but a shell filled with memories of Garrett and the triggers he pulled, and on those days, they know how to wait, their silence giving him time to find his voice—and his way—back out of the dark.  

#17 – tears

“No—no—don’t cry for Uncle Fitz. Jemma, what the hell do you do when a baby’s crying? Jemma? Jemma, help!”

#18 – speed

Skye borrows Lola and shows up at the Academy on a Friday, ordering a substitute for Ward and taking him on an impromptu date (which, he discovers later, an irate director did not approve of).

#19 – wind

Sometimes he still spars with May, but only if it’s outside and far away from his students, with nothing but the wind on his face and that old, familiar freedom from care.

#20 – freedom

He’s walked away from all of this before and he knows he can do it again if he has to, but Grant Ward knows that this is the place where he found a different kind of freedom.

#21 – life

The thing about life is that it ends—he has seen it end; caused it to end—but on the terrifying day when baby Dana unexpectedly stops breathing and Ward gives him CPR until he hears that precious wail, he knows what it is like to give life.

#22 – jealousy

He’s jealous, but it’s not because of Skye—it’s an odd, forlorn jealousy, almost grief, for the life he could have had if Garrett had not robbed him of that chance as a teenager.

#23 – hands

He can’t keep his hands of Skye, something which Fitz objects to childishly until the day when Ward and Skye find Fitz and Jemma shamelessly snogging in the hallway.

#24 – taste

When he thinks of taste, it’s _her_. It’s always her.

#25 – devotion

Grant Ward has known devotion to duty, devotion to debts…and now he is learning devotion to love (and he doesn’t mind being Skye’s pupil).

#26 – forever

There is a ring on Skye’s left hand ten years after he returned to the team and three years after their son is born, and he knows— _god_ , how he knows—this is so much more than he deserves.

#27 – blood

It takes him a long time to get used to the sight of blood again, because he hates the memories it drags up—the memories of blood under his fingernails, staining his skin in a way that still burns in his nightmares.

#28 – sickness

Coulson is the one who gets sick first, an odd virus contracted from an 0-8-4, and this time, it’s Skye who goes to the ends of the earth to find his cure.

#29 – melody

Grant never sings—never—but when he thinks no one’s around, he sings a lullaby to his son (later, May gives him an odd smile and tells him she’s never heard a better lullaby).

#30 – star

When Fitz asks why they chose his name for their son’s middle name, Grant just looks at him and smiles, while Skye says, “Leo means lion-heart. Just like you.”

#31 – home

They have one, strange as it seems, with a kitchen where he cooks and a laundry room that is never really clean and a nursery with a stack of diapers on the floor. To him, it’s paradise.

#32 – confusion

He doesn’t know why she chose him, after all this (but god, is he grateful).

#33 – fear

He had never known true fear until the day when he told Coulson he was planning to marry Skye (there were threats of court-martialing from the very same man who had rescued him from an FBI prison).

#34 - lightning/thunder

When eighteen-month-old Dana learns to crawl out of his crib, he joins them in bed when there’s a thunder storm, and they cuddle him close (and when Grant looks at Skye, he wonders which she is—the shelter or the storm).

#35 – bonds

He hasn’t done active combat for six years, but on the day Skye is held hostage, he suits up with the rest of them, and takes down a dozen men so he can be the one to untie the ropes around her wrists and bring her safely home.

#36 – market

“Goddamnit it, Skye, you can’t buy our son’s birthday present on the black market!”

#37 – technology

Skye hacked the FBI as a birthday present for him once when he wanted to look up his younger brother, but Grant and Coulson tell her it’s not something she’s allowed to teach Dana.

#38 – gift

It’s taken him years, but he’s learned the value of each day, each breath—each time Fitz begins talking about monkeys, each time Simmons says “Oh, Fitz,” in exasperation, each time May rolls her eyes at them, each time Coulson mentions Lola in that proud fatherly voice, and _dear god_ each time Skye looks at him.

#39 – smile

Dana’s smile as a baby is wide and full of toothless drool, and Grant lives for it.

#40 – innocence

There isn’t anything innocent about either of them, so Dana’s innocent questions quickly become dirty jokes he has no idea he’s making.  

#41 – completion

“Completion” is a word for missions he no longer takes part in, “ending” is a word for Garrett, and Grant Ward has a new vocabulary now.

#42 – clouds

Skye steals Lola again, and they make a trip to New York City to visit museums with Dana, who had just turned four at the time, and afterwards they lie on top of the roof of one of his still-unused safe-houses and stare at the clouds as Coulson calls both of their phones incessantly.

#43 – sky

He can’t hear the word without thinking of her, of course, and it fits her perfectly, this woman who is his sun and his stars.

#44 – heaven

If there is nothing beyond this life, having this team, this wife, this son—all of it would be more than enough.

#45 – hell

He’s looked the abyss in the face and he doesn’t want to remember it (but, Skye reminds him, we know how to rob compassion from the abyss).

#46 – sun

He has learned that sometimes simple truths are the ones that matter when he teaches, so he tells the broken teenagers in his class: if you know nothing else, know that the sun rises no matter how dark the night gets.

#47 – past

The nightmares will be there the rest of his life, he knows (but so, Skye reminds him, will she).

#48 – waves

They take Dana to the ocean on his fifth birthday, and Skye asks if Ward would mind if she bought a new dress (a pink, newborn-sized one), and he forgets how to breathe.

#49 – hair

Apparently, badass superspies are also very talented hair-braiders, a skill which Ward develops in the years following his daughter Nadia’s birth.

#50 – supernova

When he thinks of supernovas, he thinks of the most dramatic change in his life—a sunny day so many years ago, when he pulled open a van door in an alley far away, and saw a pair of dark eyes staring back at him.

**Author's Note:**

> All characters belong to Marvel. When specified, certain lines of dialogue are quoted verbatim from AoS.


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